


Honeyed Words, Vile Hearts

by Miah_Arthur



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bathing/Washing, Blood and Injury, Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, Depression, Friendship, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Identity, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Platonic Cuddling, Poison, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:21:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 43,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26336365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miah_Arthur/pseuds/Miah_Arthur
Summary: Jaskier is cursed, cruelly denied his calling to be a  bard and poet.Geralt is determined to save him, but first must unravel the mystery of how the bard ended up this way.If Geralt can converse with Roach, he can manage a cursed bard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 160
Kudos: 255





	1. Zhoda

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my betas, Maimat and Hircine_Taoist

#  **Honeyed Words, Vile Hearts**

###  **Chapter One: Zhoda**

Geralt was late to Zhoda. The thaw had been swift and heavy this year, blocking him from crossing the Pontar for three weeks. He hoped Jaskier had waited, that they'd travel together this year. The bard was irritating, but the road was less lonely with endless chatter. He knew one day he'd arrive and find the bard gone, too old to live on the road any longer, while Geralt remained. 

He hmphed. Allowing attachment with humans always ended in heartache. Vesemir drilled it into their heads as children and reminded Geralt in particular often.

He entered The Marked Lantern tavern. Suspicious stares followed his movement. Eight years now, they'd met here, and the stares remained the same. He stopped at the bar. 

"Jaskier?"

"Who?"

Geralt sighed. He got the same shit year after year. Runarounds and refusals of service. He was used to it, but he needed to know if Jaskier had been here. "Bard. Brown hair. Lute. Plays here every spring."

"Doesn't ring a bell. You sure you're in the right place?" The barkeep sneered at him, arms crossed. 

Geralt tamped down on the disgust the barkeep invoked. Jaskier despised the man, but he owned the only tavern in Zhoda. Each year, Geralt talked Jaskier out of punching the man, because despite how the horse's ass treated Geralt when he arrived alone, the bastard liked Jaskier. All the businesses appreciated the coin the bard attracted to this pitiful little village in the week or so he stayed every year. Geralt liked that the early season boost to his coin purse gave Jaskier a chance to buy travel necessities. It worried him how Jaskier started every season with so little. 

"Yes," Geralt growled, looming across the bar. "About this tall, slender, pale eyes. Never shuts up."

The barkeep swallowed, and his cheeks paled. "N-no. Definitely no bards meeting that description been through here lately."

The nervous flutter of his heart told Geralt the man was withholding information. "Someone that does has been." 

The barkeep straightened himself, his obstinate nature reasserting itself. "Aye, many men meet that description. We've had no bard in months. Who's asking anyway?"

Geralt slapped his palms onto the bar. Done with this little game. "Geralt of Rivia."

The barkeep swallowed. His throat bobbing. "There was a hoodlum matching that description a couple of weeks ago. Almost thought it was the bard. I's about to tell him what for, for being late, but he had no lute. Came in, bragged about killing and then desecrating the bodies!" His voice rose in pitch. "We tried to catch him for the magistrate, but he escaped. He was no bard, definitely not your man!"

Geralt spun on his heel and marched into the town square. Jaskier had a smart mouth, hurled insults like weapons at those he took offence to, often in response to insults against non-humans or witchers. He was fully capable of starting brawls, but he'd never behave as the barkeep described. The villain the barkeep saw wasn't Jaskier. Thankfully, Zhoda's inn and tavern were separate establishments. The barkeep would never rent to him without Jaskier to smooth things over, but the innkeeper, Eivind Thune, believed coin was coin and never spit on people willing to part with theirs.

He'd wait a day or two. Maybe the flooding had delayed the bard as it had him. 

Before heading to the inn, Geralt made some purchases for the traveling season, scanning the crowd for any sign of Jaskier along the way. The delay in crossing the river had turned into major profit for him. King Henselt put a hefty contract on clearing a nest of fleders, and the beasts cooperated by dying without causing much damage to Geralt's gear or body. He put his things into Roach's saddlebags and led her toward the stables. She'd need good lodging if he were staying a few days. 

His medallion tingled, tugging slightly to the right. Geralt tensed. This town was too poor to have potent magical charms. He'd never encountered a wanted source of magic in Zhoda. The pull led him to the mouth of the alley between the inn and tailoring shop. It was far darker here between the close-set buildings. Heaps of trash lined the Inn's wall. A low murmur drifted from the confined space. The tingle grew stronger. Lists of potential monsters formed in his mind. 

The tingle stopped as silence fell. Geralt prowled along the alley. Something had caused his medallion to react. 

Geralt didn't see him at first. 

Garbage rustled behind him. He whirled, one hand on his silver sword, to see a gaunt, filthy human frozen with fear, one hand outstretched toward Geralt's legs. Geralt took a step forward and the...man, Geralt decided upon seeing a flash of beard, scrambled back into the trash heap with a whimper, his heart rabbiting within him. 

He could be a monster. A test of silver was simple enough. Geralt crouched near the gap in the trash and peered inside. The man huddled an arm's depth inside the heap with his knees pulled up and his arms wrapped tightly around his head. He trembled as if expecting an attack. Geralt waited. It was useless to attempt communication with one so panicked. 

The tattered remnants of soft soled slippers caught Geralt's attention. They'd been stuffed with grass for warmth and tied together with scraps of cloth. He had no coat, but a filthy ragged blanket lay on the garbage near him. Geralt frowned. The man's clothing was _wrong_. His pants showed hints of green through the caked muck and his chemise, while threadbare and ripped, was made of fine cloth. 

It couldn't be…

"Jaskier?"

The man drew himself even tighter, and the stench of fear washed over Geralt. Enough of this. He gripped the man's arm and dragged him closer. The man fought, scraping and reaching for the deepest part of the hole. Geralt spotted a lute case wedged into the back of the hole. 

"I won't leave it," Geralt promised. 

Upon hearing the promise, the fight left Jaskier enough for Geralt to extract him from the hole. But as soon as he let go, Jaskier scrambled back, arms up, covering his head. Geralt reached in and pulled the lute out and stood up. Whatever this was, he needed to get Jaskier away from prying eyes. Set up camp outside of town? 

Jaskier made a strangled noise and rolled onto his knees as he reached for the lute. Geralt set it at his feet, but Jaskier didn’t reach for it. His arms dropped, his chin dropping to his chest. 

Geralt tipped Jaskier's head up. Tears ran down Jaskier's cheeks. His heart beat too fast, and underneath the fear and filth, the scent of blood lingered. Geralt didn't know what the fuck to do. The bard hadn't spoken a word, and his silence scared Geralt. "Open your mouth. Let me see."

Jaskier didn't resist when Geralt placed his thumb on his chin, drawing it downward. Jaskier’s teeth and tongue were intact, and Geralt breathed a sigh of relief. "What happened to you?"

Jaskier pulled his head out of Geralt's grip and it listed back to his chest. He swayed in place.

The inn. Eivind was likely to be friendly enough to ignore this given enough coin. He hauled Jaskier up to his feet. Jaskier yelped at the contact and huddled against the wall. Geralt stepped away to pick up the lute and his saddlebags, and only his enhanced reflexes allowed him to snap his arm out and catch the bard as he darted back for the hiding spot with more speed than Geralt thought possible.

"Butcher! Butcher of Blaviken! Murderer. Monster." Jaskier's free hand flew to his mouth.

His medallion tingled. Geralt tightened his grip, hurt and shock warring within him. "Jaskier?" 

Jaskier shook his head, his eyes wide.

Geralt stared at him. He pulled his silver sword, needing to make sure this was, indeed, his bard.

"I wasted all these years following you, Butcher," Jaskier murmured, his voice quavering, and then took a deep breath and tipped his head back, giving Geralt full access to his throat. 

Geralt's medallion buzzed stronger. The tip of the sword shook, and Geralt clenched his fist around the pommel. The bare expanse of Jaskier's throat beckoned. Jaskier thought he'd take such an invitation? He offered no resistance to Geralt, pulling his hand toward the sword, but his heart raced and the stench of fear washed over Geralt strong enough to choke his breath. 

"I won't hurt you, Jaskier." 

Jaskier licked his lips and stared at the sword so near his fingers. Did he think… _Fuck_. Geralt stopped hesitating and touched the tip of Jaskier's fingers to the flat of the blade.

No reaction. 

Jaskier crumpled as Geralt sheathed the weapon, but the hold on his arm kept him upright until he planted his feet under himself. Geralt didn't make the mistake of loosening his grip on Jaskier’s arm when he reached for the saddlebags and lute this time. He passed the lute to Jaskier, who hugged it tight. Jaskier gasped and winced with every step, and Geralt was glad he'd decided to stay at the inn.

The back door of the inn was closed. Geralt thumped on it. The cook opened the door a crack and slammed it shut. Geralt pounded on it until Eivind Thune threw the door open. 

"I'm warning you! We'll call the constable! Oh-Oh, Witcher."

"I need a room. Hot food. A warm bath."

"You can't bring… _that_ into my inn. That’s the filthy mad man that’s been haunting the alley. My guests will revolt. I have to make a living, Witcher!"

Geralt fished a pouch of coin from a pocket, appealing to the innkeeper’s greed should prove effective. It had every other time they'd stayed in Zhoda.

Eivind eyed the pouch and licked his lips. "You'll scrub him and dispose of those rags?"

"Yes."

"And keep him in the room? Your coin is good, but I can't have my other patrons scared away by a fae-touched vagabond."

Geralt growled. "Yes. I'll keep watch on him." 

Eivind took a step away.

"Come along to the bathing room, then. We had a bath prepared for another guest, but he doesn't pay as well as you." Eivind led them through the kitchen.

"Hot food and drink after."

"Of course."

Jaskier fell silent, clutching the lute, head down. Definitely a curse. Geralt would get the bard fed, clothed and rested, find out what magic held sway over Jaskier, and dispel it. Simple. 

Hot, humid air greeted them as Geralt opened the door to the bathing chamber. Geralt barred the door before releasing Jaskier's arm. He didn't move to escape this time. Good. Geralt motioned to the bench. "Sit down."

Jaskier swayed in place. 

Geralt set his saddle bags aside and guided Jaskier to the bench. "Give me the lute."

A shudder ran through Jaskier, and he shook his head.

"Jaskier. I won't harm your instrument. Give it to me." Geralt tugged on it. 

Jaskier released his hold with a sob and swiveled his head to stare at it when Geralt set it aside. Geralt bit back his frustration. Jaskier was under the effect of magic. Patience was called for...and lowered expectations. Jaskier didn't seem able to follow directions— Geralt snorted. When did his bard ever follow directions?

The scent of blood hung heavy around Jaskier. Geralt kept his movements slow and careful. "I'm going to undress you now." He waited a moment for Jaskier to say something, do something. When he didn't, Geralt gripped the hem of Jaskier's chemise and hiked it up. He stopped as Jaskier hissed in a breath. The blood. Geralt dragged him forward. Under the dirt, lines of dried blood bonded the chemise to his back. 

Geralt growled. He dipped a towel into the warm water and laid it over Jaskier's back to soak the material free. Jaskier remained silent and passive throughout as Geralt undressed him. His feet were red and raw. Bruises and cuts littered his torso, and a gash stretched from his temple to the back of his head. The head injury worried Geralt. If his amulet hadn't buzzed and strained toward Jaskier, he'd consider the possibility of the odd behavior stemming from that injury. He'd seen stranger reactions to head injuries. 

He wiped the worst of the grime away with the wet towel before moving Jaskier into the tub. His sunken and shadowed eyes and scruffy beard changed his appearance, so much he barely looked like himself, but the unnerving lack of chatter disturbed Geralt the most. 

Tears ran down Jaskier’s cheeks, but he made no move to be helpful as Geralt scrubbed him. A new scar traced down his ribs. Nearly healed bruises topped fresh ones. He’d been beaten more than once. Thin raised welts, made by a thin switch, wrapped around Jaskier’s sides and hips. Several had broken the skin. Geralt's hands clenched into fists and he needed to several deep breaths before the tension eased. 

Geralt was as gentle as he could manage, while imagining what he wanted to do to the ones who did this.

The serving girl entered, pulling the inner bar up by the rope on the outside, and gasped. "I thought-I thought you'd be done, sir. May I, sir? I must draw a bath for another."

Geralt held out a gold coin, and she gasped. "Bring me a bucket of clean water and a blanket. Then this is yours."

"Yes, of course!"

He left Jaskier huddled in the tub and dipped a cloth in the water. The lute case was almost as filthy as Jaskier. He picked it up, ignoring the cut off sound of distress from Jaskier, and scrubbed it clean. When he opened it, Jaskier’s breathing became panicked gasps. The inside remained miraculously clean. He snapped the case shut as the girl returned lugging a bucket full of warm water with a blanket draped over her shoulders. Geralt handed her the coin. 

As soon as Geralt released the lute, Jaskier returned to passive silence. Geralt drained the water and rinsed Jaskier with the water from the bucket. The girl deserved every ounce of the gold coin for having to deal with the sludge they'd left behind. Jaskier reached for the lute as soon as his feet were on the floor. 

"Stop," Geralt said, placing a hand on Jaskier's shoulder. The light touch halted him. Geralt shook his head. It couldn't be an obedience spell. Jaskier had ignored far too many instructions. "Dry off first."

Jaskier trembled. His hands wavered in purposeless motions. He didn't reach for the towel. If the head injury compounded the curse… Geralt dried him off and wrapped him in the blanket. He handed over the lute and Jaskier held it close as they made their way to the room.


	2. Trust

###  **Chapter Two: Trust**

Geralt sealed the window before letting him go. He didn't know what had made Jaskier run earlier, but he wasn't risking it. 

He had everything he'd need to treat the injuries except bandages. A boy entered carrying a tray with water, a cup of soup, bread, cheese, and a bowl of stew. A teapot peaked from underneath a cozy. 

"Father said your companion looked half-starved. This might settle in his belly easier. Is there anything else?"

"Bandages. A lot of them. And a mug of warm milk."

The boy bobbed his head and left. Jaskier stared at the food. The prominent outlines of his ribs and spine and the sallow cast of his skin showed he'd been ill, starved, or both. Geralt put the mug of soup in Jaskier's hands. "Drink."

Jaskier's heart rate rose, and he trembled, but the mug moved to his mouth. Geralt fumed over the way he clutched the cup to his chest, turning his shoulders to shield it. Jaskier's gaze stayed on him the entire time. Jaskier feared him, feared that he'd take the food back. If the first drink went well, he'd move away.

Jaskier swallowed a large mouthful of soup. He grimaced and Geralt snagged the cup as Jaskier doubled over, groaning. 

"Take it slow. You’ve not had much to eat lately, have you?"

Jaskier pulled into a huddle once more. 

"Here. Drink," Geralt said, placing the mug in Jaskier's hands. 

The soup sloshed dangerously as Jaskier grasped the cup with shaking hands. Geralt placed his hands over his and guided him into drinking. Jaskier stomached the next sip better than the first, and his trembling lessened enough that Geralt risked letting him go. 

Geralt added chamomile and lemon balm to the teapot. A salve of laurel and lavender would be good to spread on the open wounds and one of pepper and oil to soothe the bruises. He monitored Jaskier's progress while he worked. 

Jaskier had finished the mug of soup and was looking longingly at the food on the tray when the innkeeper's boy knocked. Geralt poured a cup of tea, broke off a piece of bread, and handed them to Jaskier as he passed the bed. 

Geralt accepted the milk and bandages from the boy. "Return in the morning."

"Sure thing, Witcher."

Jaskier needed something stronger than chamomile tea tonight. Geralt stirred a packet of elysium into the milk, the medicinal powder tinting it green. The pleasant scent of spices ground into the herb to improve the flavor and calm the stomach rose from the concoction. It would numb the pain and induce a deep, healing sleep. He sat beside Jaskier, ignoring the way he flinched. The bread and tea had disappeared, and Jaskier's eyelids drooped. 

"Drink this before you sleep."

Jaskier sniffed it and glanced at Geralt.

"Drink." The brief acknowledgement encouraged Geralt. Hopefully, there was more comprehension going on in the bard’s head than he’d feared. "It'll help you sleep."

When the drink was gone, Geralt picked up the pepper oil and dripped some onto a scrap of cloth. "Lean forward. How did you get yourself in such a state, bard?"

He didn't get an answer. Not that he expected one. Jaskier trembled under his touch, biting his lip to keep silent. Geralt tipped Jaskier's bearded chin up so they could make eye contact. "You don't have to remain silent, Jaskier. I will not harm you for suffering the effects of magic."

Jaskier jerked away, hiding his face in his hands. 

Geralt sighed and finished rubbing the oil over Jaskier’s bruised skin. The open sores weren't bleeding, but two were inflamed, infected. He smeared the salve over the wounds and tied bandages over them. Jaskier wavered, barely awake, and Geralt moved him to the bed. The lute stayed across the room, and even though Jaskier’s gaze glided over it, he remained calm and sedate.

Good, the drink was taking effect. 

Geralt sat on the bed next to the bard and gently smoothed his hand over his hair, surreptitiously palpating the wound on the side of Jaskier’s head. He closed his eyes and focused, using his heightened senses to feel for what couldn’t be seen. Separations in the bone? Cracks? There. A defect corresponded to the cut, but not separated, not sunk in. It would heal so long as infection didn’t set in. Best to treat it and observe for a few days. 

Jaskier's eyes had closed and his breathing evened out. His feet weren't as bad as Geralt feared. No chilblains or blisters had formed as they warmed. Only a few cuts marred the soles, but bruising would make walking painful for the next few days. 

"The grass was smart, Jaskier. Always protect your feet."

"Monster?" Jaskier slurred under the effect of the drink, and his brow crinkled in confusion.

Geralt hesitated, and Jaskier drew his limbs in, a sob escaping before he smothered it with his knuckles. Geralt resolved to react as if the insults coming out of Jaskier's mouth were normal conversation. If he could converse with Roach, he could manage it with a cursed bard.

"I’m not sure what you’re trying to say, but it’s me, Geralt."

Jaskier stopped and peered at him, eyes wavering unsteadily. The head wound? Perhaps, but the concoction Geralt’d given him could cause blurred vision. 

"Butcher? I know you murder people to rifle through their pockets."

"I’ll figure this out." Geralt stroked Jaskier's leg. "I've got you, Jaskier. Sleep."

Jaskier nodded and his eyes slid closed. His hand fell away from his mouth. Did Jaskier understand the things he was saying?

Geralt rubbed pepper oil into the deep bruises on the bottoms of Jaskier's feet. Even with the grasses, the soft-soled slippers hadn't been adequate to protect against rocks and hard travel. 

"Why were you so poorly dressed, bard? Those weren't travel clothes," Geralt mused to himself. 

With the bandages wrapped snug around Jaskier's feet, Geralt tucked the blankets around him. The stew the innkeeper's boy brought had long since gone cold, but even cold stew was a treat compared to the sparse meals Geralt ate on the road. He rolled up the cheese and remaining bread in wax cloth for later. Jaskier should sleep for hours, but he might awake hungry in the night, depending on his reaction.

Geralt settled onto the floor next to the bed. These days, Jaskier understood travel too well to leave Oxenfurt wearing naught but what Geralt found him in. Had he been robbed of all else, or had they chased him away from Oxenfurt with only the clothes on his back?

Now that he had time to think, Geralt considered their interactions so far. How much of Jaskier’s odd behaviour was caused by the head injury? The bard seemed to understand him. A curse could be fixed, brain trauma… Geralt hoped that Jaskier’s confusion resolved with rest and food. If Jaskier didn't understand, solving this riddle and keeping him safe would be much harder. 

Geralt settled in to sleep. That was tomorrow's problem. 

Geralt woke with daybreak. Jaskier remained asleep, tucked within the blankets Geralt had wrapped around him. 

Moving slowly, careful not to disturb Jaskier’s rest, Geralt checked the wounds on his back and feet. Both had improved. The angry red surrounding the deepest one on his back had faded to pink. Jaskier remained sleeping when the innkeeper's boy arrived, and Geralt sent the boy off with enough coin to fetch clean clothes and a travel kit. The extras put a dent in Geralt’s purse, but he’d been well paid for the fleders, and these were necessary expenses. 

Jaskier continued sleeping through the morning, slept through the return of the innkeeper's boy, and even the arrival of the midday meal. 

"Jaskier." Geralt squeezed his shoulder. "Jaskier." Even with the dose of elysium he’d added to Jaskier’s milk the night before, he should have woken by now. 

His blinked eyes opened.

"Time to eat."

Jaskier jerked free of Geralt's grip and scrambled away until his back hit the wall. He patted the bed, breaths coming faster and faster. His head jerked like a poorly controlled marionette as he searched the room, not stilling until he faced the lute. He drew up into the defensive huddle he'd taken the day before, his gaze locked onto the lute.

"Jaskier." Geralt spoke slow, clear, unsure how much Jaskier understood. He prepared for the worst, and placed the lute on the bed, hoping the instrument would ease the bard’s fears as it had the day before.  
Jaskier dragged it closer, and the tension in him eased. "Jaskier. I need to know if you understand my speech."

His shoulders hunched, but his head swiveled toward Geralt and he made eye contact. Geralt took that as a sign that he was paying attention, at least. "Good. Hold out your hand."

The movement was hesitant, but Jaskier extended a hand.

Geralt took it and smiled. "Good." A huge weight of worry sloughed off his shoulders. "You understand."

Jaskier nodded.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Butcher." Jaskier's voice shook, and he ducked his head.

Close enough. Geralt considered it a win. "Good. There are clothes and food. Up to you, which you take first."

Jaskier glanced at the blanket covering his nakedness and back up to Geralt. The questions were plain in his expression.

"Do you remember last night?" Geralt asked. 

Jaskier's heart rate jumped, and he shook his head.

"I found you in a trash heap. Gave you a bath. Fed you."

Jaskier pulled the blanket closer, his hand shaking. His eyes darted around the room, bouncing between Geralt and the food and the stack of clothing. He twitched first toward the food, then the clothes, and repeated it in a loop. One hand scraped through his hair, lodging in a tangle and remaining. Geralt caught only a faint whiff of fear in Jaskier's scent. It wasn't fear Jaskier was paralyzed by, but the decision, and another spike of fear ran through Geralt about the head wound. 

"I've got you," he said, gently untangling Jaskier's fingers from his hair. "Eat first. Then get dressed." Geralt pushed the chair out from the table. 

Jaskier looked at him blankly for a moment, before fear bloomed in his scent. He glanced between Geralt and the food. He whined in the back of his throat and covered his head with his arms as he had the night before.

Geralt had seen men who thought themselves tough torment beggars by offering food only to snatch it away to be replaced with blows. Jaskier didn't think Geralt would… His heart sank with the worry that Jaskier didn’t remember him after all, that maybe, beyond his name, he had no memory of the travels they’d had together. It'd explain the fear and hesitation to accept help. He knew head injuries could cause memory loss, but had never considered that beyond his name, he may be a complete stranger to the bard. 

In that case, his presence only caused Jaskier more anxiety. Imagine; being alone, confused, beaten, and then having to face the likes of himself. No wonder Jaskier was so scared. 

"The food is yours. No tricks," Geralt said, and backed away, giving Jaskier as much space as possible.

It took longer than Geralt expected, but Jaskier darted to the chair, keeping the blanket wrapped around himself. He hunched over the plate of mashed turnips, lentils seasoned with cured pork, and scrambled eggs mixed with wild greens, shoveling it into his mouth as fast as he could with his fingers. After several bites, he stopped and looked up at Geralt with a blush creeping up his cheeks. Geralt didn't comment.

Jaskier cleared his throat, wiped his fingers, and picked up the fork. He straightened his back, picked his elbows off the table, and ate slower. He yawned several times, his eyelids drooped, and he wavered in his seat, but he finished everything on the tray. 

His gaze drifted to the far wall, his expression empty.

"Clothes." Geralt sat socks, braies, and a chemise on the table. 

Jaskier reached for the clothes in response to the implied order, and relief bloomed in Geralt at the improvement over last night. He stopped short of touching and looked at Geralt, a question in his expression. Fear radiated from him. 

"Yours." He hesitated even with the reassurance, and anger shot through Geralt. If he ever found the ones who had put this fear into his bard, they'd—. He swallowed the emotion. Patience and lowered expectations. He crouched beside Jaskier and softened his tone. "Go on, we're safe here. They're yours."

Jaskier stroked the light wool of the chemise. Tears formed in his eyes, and he patted Geralt's arm. 

"Put them on." Simple commands. No paralyzing decisions. Even without the curse—and he didn't yet know the extent of its reach—Jaskier was starved, injured, and exhausted. The effects of the elysium lingered, and Geralt noted to adjust the dose lower next time. 

Jaskier moved stiffly, working his arms into the chemise and pulling it over his head. It caught on the bandages around his torso and he hissed in a breath. 

"Let me help you?"

It was not quite a question, and not quite an order. Jaskier froze, hunching over for a moment, before sitting up straighter and nodding. Geralt kept his movements slow and gentle, pulling the hem down without disturbing the bandages further. 

"I'll do the socks, I don't want you breaking those lines on your back open." He paused, looking for comprehension in Jaskier's eyes. "Pass me the socks and braies."

Jaskier nodded and passed them over. He didn't watch as Geralt worked the socks over his bandaged feet and threaded his legs into the braies. Jaskier pulled them up over his hips without prompting, but fumbled with the laces, the scent of fear growing stronger the longer he tried. Geralt reached for the laces and Jaskier recoiled, pulling his knees up. Geralt backed away, cursing himself for ruining the rapport he'd built. 

"Go to bed, Jaskier." 

His huddle grew tighter. 

"No one will touch you."

Jaskier took a deep, shuddering breath and patted Geralt's shoulder. He looked miserable; his chin touched his chest and his lips pressed together. 

"Jaskier," Geralt asked. He didn’t normally ask questions he didn’t want to know the answer to. But he had to. "Do you remember me? Do you remember travelling together?"

Jaskier nodded. 

The tension eased from Geralt's shoulders. "Do you trust me?" 

Another nod. 

Geralt slowly reached out and placed his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. This time, Jaskier didn’t flinch away. He hadn’t realised how much that one small reaction had hurt. "Thank you. Go back to sleep, we're staying here another night."

Jaskier crawled into the bed and snuggled under the thick blankets, but fought sleep. He dozed off, then jerked awake, his eyes focusing on Geralt before repeating. 

"I won't leave you in Zhoda, Jaskier."

He snaked a hand out from under the blankets and rested his fingers on Geralt's arm. Geralt lay his hand over Jaskier's and remained even after Jaskier fell asleep.


	3. Fae Touched

###  **Chapter Three: Fae Touched**

Geralt couldn't sleep this early in the day. What did he know so far? The bard had been dressed in linen undergarments and fine cloth. He'd worn soft soled slippers. He carried such an outfit with him on the chance he'd play before an upper echelon crowd, but he didn't make a habit of wearing it on the road. The expense was too great to risk damage and wear and tear, and the protection from the elements too meagre. 

They'd driven Jaskier out of a court. Bruises took no more than a few weeks to disappear, even while half-starved. Jaskier's last month was writ on his body. Fading yellow bruises on his arms and legs told Geralt he'd huddled, protecting his head and stomach while a crowd pummeled him almost a month ago, before he arrived in Zhoda. He'd have felt the aches when he walked into The Marked Lantern, and thanks to the curse incited an angry mob. The green and purple and yellow bruises on his ribs and right side of his face? Those were from the tavern. 

The minor bruises scattered along his forearms and hands, his shins and knees, ranged from several days to two weeks old. Jaskier had scrambled on the ground, taken blows...huddled in a tiny cave dug into garbage. The fresher injuries, when someone had beaten and whipped a half-starved, defenseless bard—

Geralt broke off his thinking, fuming. His fists clenched so hard, his nails dug into his palms. Jaskier loved everyone he met, like an overgrown friendly puppy, even grizzled old witchers who punched him during their first meeting. Fucking river. He should have ignored the summons for the fleder nest. _Made_ a way to cross the damn thing. A few days would have prevented that beating, at least.

Jaskier shifted in his sleep, the hand Geralt had held curling around nothing. He should go out, search the town, find out who beat Jaskier, but instead he slipped his hand back into Jaskier's grasp. The bruises told him the bard had been in trouble a month. The scar running down his ribs spoke of longer. 

He pulled the blankets aside with his free hand, checking that it didn't disturb Jaskier's sleep, and examined the scar. Sharp-bladed weapon. It healed poorly with places of puckering and widening, but contained no trace of magic within it. It hadn't caused the curse, but Jaskier hadn't had it treated properly either. Even if he hadn't had the means to pay a healer, he would have taken better care of this wound if he'd been able. 

Geralt focused on the injury, on the tissue and bones beneath. He should have checked Jaskier's ribs for fractures last night, anyway. The wound swept down from above Jaskier's heart to just below his last rib. Whoever stabbed him had meant it as a killing blow. A stab directly to the heart, but they were inexperienced, stupid, or both. The heart is well protected and slotting between the ribs of a moving target, not as easy as stories make it sound. A far better tactic is to thrust up from below the ribs. The trailing edge of the wound over the far more vulnerable organs had been shallow. 

The scar faded there. A thin line marring his skin with no remaining damage underneath. It took months for that kind of healing. 

Geralt felt safe assuming the curse started during the winter, in Oxenfurt.

Jaskier shivered, and Geralt snugged the blankets around him. He should go out and question the people of Zhoda. The curse may have begun in Oxenfurt, but the local bastards knew who'd whipped his bard. He brushed Jaskier's hair away from his forehead and looked at their entwined hands. Not letting Jaskier wake and think himself abandoned was more important. He settled in to wait, emptying his mind in meditation. 

The innkeeper's boy knocked on the door, rousing Geralt. It woke Jaskier, too. His hand clutched Geralt's, and his heart rate jumped. "Come in," Geralt called. Softer, to Jaskier, he said, "It's the evening meal."

The boy sat the tray on the table. "Papa wants to know if you will be staying tomorrow night."

Geralt looked at Jaskier, frozen under the blankets. "Yes. Possibly two. I will make the arrangements tomorrow after breakfast."

"Of course," the boy said with a slight bow. 

Jaskier sat up when the door closed, his cheeks tinged red. He cleared his throat and waved at the table. The motion was expansive and dramatic, and so like the man he remembered, that Geralt played along. 

"I'll gladly join you for the evening meal," he said, pulling Jaskier's chair out for him.

Jaskier smiled at him. He ate slowly, savoring the stew. It was a variation on the noon meal, probably made with the leftovers. Lentils, garlic, wild greens, and turnips, seasoned with a little cured pork, but they'd adjusted the herbs and a thick slice of bread came with it. Jaskier opened his mouth to speak, but caught himself, sighing instead. 

The third time Jaskier sighed instead of speaking, Geralt began talking to fill in the silence. "The first time I faced a griffin"—Jaskier sat up straighter and nodded—"I was young, foolhardy, sure of my abilities…" 

Jaskier ate faster with less sighing, his eyes eager as he listened. When he finished eating, he patted Geralt's arm and let his hand rest on it for the remainder of the story. Afterward, Geralt helped him get the new boots on and pretended he didn't notice the tears that leaked before Jaskier scrubbed them away. The bruises and cuts on the bottom of his feet still made Jaskier wince with each step to the privy and back, but he was already stronger from the sleep and food. One more day and night in Zhoda, then they'd move on.

Geralt pilfered a mug of milk from the storeroom on the way to their room. He sat Jaskier on the bed. He held up a packet. "This is elysium. It'll help the pain and put you in a deep sleep."

Jaskier sniffed it and made a face.

"I know it doesn't taste great. The milk helps. I won't force you to take it, but you need the rest."

Jaskier nodded. Geralt mixed a dose lighter than he had the night before, and Jaskier drank it. 

Geralt showed him the salves, and Jaskier nodded. His expression was guarded and as soon as his shirt was off, his shoulders hunched. He didn't flinch when Geralt reached for him, but only because he held himself rigid with tension. "You're safe now."

Jaskier sucked in a breath. He nodded, but also pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, not looking at Geralt.

"Your hair has gotten long."

Jaskier glanced up at him before shrugging one shoulder. 

"I could comb it and tie it back the way you do for me."

Jaskier touched Geralt's hair, rubbing a strand between his fingers and thumb. He smiled and nodded. 

It took a long time to work the tangles out. The scent of filth that had been clinging to Jaskier despite the bath grew more powerful as the knots gave way. His posture relaxed, and when Geralt reached for the salve, he gave a happy hum and remained at ease. Geralt had questions, so many questions, but he didn't want to risk asking them while he had Jaskier at a disadvantage. By the time he finished Jaskier's feet, the elysium was taking effect. 

Geralt pulled the blankets over Jaskier and stepped away, intending to sleep on the floor. Jaskier squirmed to the back of the bed, against the wall. He looked up at Geralt heavy-lidded and patted the bed. 

"You sure?"

Jaskier patted it again and mumbled, "I ate his eyeballs before he died."

"All right," Geralt stripped his outer clothes and slid under the blankets. 

Jaskier snuggled into him, his head pillowed on Geralt's shoulder and his arm draped across Geralt's chest. "I'll kill you in your sleep, you know."

"I've got you. Go to sleep."

_Fae-touched vagabond._

Eivind's words rang through Geralt's mind when he woke. True, Jaskier had been filthy and stinking, but he'd also been silent. Geralt needed to have words with Eivind. He didn't believe the man would participate in the beating, but he also wouldn't have raised a hand to stop it. 

Jaskier was drooling on him. Geralt smiled fondly. He got clingy and drooled every time he got drunk, so that almost felt normal. The wrongness of everything else made that sliver of normal painful. Downstairs, the clattering of the dishes followed by the door opening and closing. With focused listening, Geralt found only four heartbeats. The guests had gone; fewer witnesses if the conversation grew heated.

Geralt slid out of Jaskier's grasp. Confident that Jaskier was deep asleep, Geralt prowled out in search of Eivind Thune. 

"Witcher! Will you be joining the table for the evening meal?"

"You called him fae-touched."

Eivind took a step back. "Oh? Did I?"

"You'd seen him before."

"I don’t understand what interest you have in that vagrant. Of course, I'd seen him. He was sleeping in the refuse pile in my alley. How-how are you managing—I suppose as a Witcher, you fear far less than we do."

"Explain yourself."

"To be infected with the taint of the fae? Or is your kind immune to such things?" Eivind straightened his spine. "The man speaks in violent nonsense when he thinks no one is around. He has an air of unnatural madness about him. I noticed him going through my garbage about two weeks ago looking for food scraps."

"So you beat him?" Geralt loomed closer to the man.

Eivind snorted.“I fed him. Scraps, but on a plate. I didn’t see much of him, mind you. He cringed in silence whenever anyone approached. Gave him an old blanket and didn’t chase him away. I’ve a soft spot for the fae-touched, so long as they don’t get too close.” Eivind scowled. "Not everyone in Zhoda does."

"Who beat him?"

"Some soldiers camped just outside of town. They bragged up and down about the thrashing they gave him after catching him trying to steal boots. Certainly didn't expect someone like you to adopt a fae-touched charge."

"It's Jaskier," Geralt growled.

Eivind took a step back. "No!"

"You didn't recognize him?"

"I should say not! The beard and filth. And who could expect the bard to behave like _that_?"

"Are the soldiers still in town?"

"No, no, no. They moved on two days ago."

"We leave tomorrow."

"Yes, very good. I like the bard. You know that, but fae-touched." Eivind shuddered. "You may not worry about having him under the same roof as you, but I'm not ashamed to say it makes me nervous. What if it spreads to one of us?"

"It won't. I'm going to the market. He will be untouched when I return."

"Of course. None of us will enter the room in your absence."

Geralt went to the market and asked around. "What do you know of the young madman wandering these parts?" Answers varied, but the sightings had only started two weeks prior. Some admitted to chasing the freak away with blows and harsh words, others expressed pity. The girl minding the fruit cart confessed she’d offered scraps of food for the 'simpleton beggar,' and asked if she’d done wrong. "Is he dangerous?" 

"No, you’ve done him a kindness, and I thank you for it." Geralt assured her and bought a few apples in gratitude.

It seemed everyone was also aware of the attempted theft from the soldiers, and that incident had even turned the friendlies against him. A group gathered around Geralt, everyone wanting to get in on the excitement of having a real monster hunter in town. 

"I made the mistake of feeding that wastrel. He drifted into town, so I thought he'd keep drifting." "Hasn't shown his face since he turned to theft, though. He knows what's good for him, he'll stay gone." "We don't feed thieves." "I see that bastard again, I'll string him up myself. Zhoda doesn't need the reputation for harboring thieves." "What's he done to have a Witcher after him?"

Geralt backed out of the crowd. "Nothing. He's not the one I'm looking for."

"Who are you looking for?"

"A monster." Geralt walked away, ignoring their questions and pleas for more information. They deserved to worry.

Geralt returned to the room. Jaskier was awake, sitting on the bed, holding his lute. He looked up at Geralt as he strummed it. The notes struck sour and Geralt’s medallion tingled. He grimaced.

Jaskier nodded sadly and put it back in its case.

"Writing as well?"

Jaskier nodded. 

"Do you know who cursed you?"

Jaskier shook his head and scrubbed his arm across his eyes. He looked so young and lost. Geralt sat beside him, automatically reaching out to tug him closer, but withdrew when Jaskier tensed. After a moment, Jaskier wiggled up next to him on his own, and hesitantly patted Geralt’s thigh, as if in apology. 

"Did the curse start in Oxenfurt?"

The nod was hesitant. Jaskier opened his mouth, but closed it without making a sound. 

"Do you know who did this?" Geralt pointed to the scar.

A quick shake. 

"We're leaving Zhoda tomorrow. There's nothing here that can help."

Jaskier finally settled against Geralt's side. He patted Geralt's chest and gave a tentative smile.

Geralt huffed. "You did well getting yourself here."

Jaskier shook his head and opened his mouth, but closed it with a frustrated noise.

"I know roughly what's happened since you got to Zhoda. The journey here must've been just as bad."

He nodded.

Geralt hovered his fingers over the wound on Jaskier's head. "The soldiers?"

He shuddered and pressed closer to Geralt before nodding.

"And this?" Geralt ran his finger over the scar that spanned Jaskier's ribs. "At Oxenfurt?"

Jaskier nodded. He looked like he wanted to speak, but settled for a dramatic sigh. 

"You understand the effect your speech has on others. Do you intend to say vile things?"

He tensed and shook his head.

"Easy now," Geralt said in the tone he used on Roach when she got skittish. 

Jaskier looked at him, offended.

Geralt smirked, and the tension eased. "So the curse doesn't change your intentions. Do you hear the words as you intended them?"

He nodded. 

"So no way to tell if the changes are associative or random. Might be a mix of both. Some of what you've said was pointed and some not."

Jaskier shrugged and then waved his hand around. Geralt knew he was trying to ask something but didn't understand what. It took much frustration on both their parts before Geralt understood Jaskier wanted to hear what he'd been saying.

Geralt told him what he remembered, and Jaskier drew away, horror writ on his expression. He shook his head.

Geralt caught him, hands on Jaskier's shoulders. "I know you'd never say those things. I know you don't secretly believe them. And I know we'll fix this."

Jaskier threw his arms around Geralt, sniffling interspersed with chuckling. Geralt didn't understand such a strange display of mixed emotion, but he patted Jaskier's back and repeated, "We'll fix this."


	4. The Last Witch

###  **Chapter Four: The Last Witch**

The bruises and wounds Jaskier sported when Geralt found him had healed, even the fracture in his skull. He regained the weight he'd lost. He looked healthy. And yet…

Geralt saw the expression Jaskier got when he thought himself alone or unnoticed. He refused to rid himself of the beard and had begun picking at his food. This curse was killing his spirit. When they entered villages, he walked with his head down, his hair a loose curtain concealing his face. He stayed a step behind, following orders, and not trying to communicate with anyone, not even Geralt. 

Geralt feared if he didn't find a solution soon, that the friend he remembered would be gone forever.

Hope and eagerness to find the next witch, or the next pellar had tapered off. Jaskier had mimed and danced and been angry, frustrated, furious when the initial fear ran its course. Geralt preferred the fiery display to the shadow plodding behind him today. 

"I've got a good feeling about this one, Jaskier." Geralt glanced back. Jaskier's eyes were fixed on the ground. "The sky is a fine color today. Azure, I think you called it last year when it looked like this."

Jaskier shrugged without looking up. 

The cabin sat at the edge of the forest. A tidy garden surrounded it, and fresh thatch covered the roof. The walls were whitewashed and bright flower murals enlivened them. This witch was prosperous, people from villages days away came to her. They had come from days away to see her, having heard tales of her magic and healing in the last three villages they'd stopped in.

Jaskier sighed dramatically as they approached the garden gate. A woman stood up from a patch of feverfew. Deep wrinkles etched her face, but her body and hands remained straight and strong, almost untouched by her apparent age. "What troubles you?"

"Curse."

Her eyes roamed over Geralt's armor and swords before settling on Jaskier, standing silent behind him. 

"Fee is fifty orens to take a look. No guarantees. Bring him inside."

She'd passed the first test. Most charlatans assumed the curse was on his shoulders, that Jaskier was unimportant. "Agreed." He counted out the coin from his dwindling stock.

Jaskier fumed at not being acknowledged. He hated being ignored. 

"Off with the clothes, boy."

Jaskier sighed even more dramatically, but began stripping. 

"I can see he's cursed." She called to Jaskier. "You can keep the braies on. For now." She continued to Geralt as if she hadn't interrupted herself. "Something with his speech."

Geralt grit his teeth at her ordering Jaskier about. "Yes."

"Hmmph. Not a big talker yourself, are you? Testing my abilities by not giving anything away. Smart lad."

Jaskier stared at Geralt as the witch stalked around him. She ran her finger up his spine and he shivered.

"Sit on the bed. You understand me?"

Jaskier rolled his eyes and nodded.

"You can make sounds?"

Jaskier nodded.

"Well, say something then!"

"The walls of your rancid hut are soaked in blood. The scent of blood makes me hungry." He smiled at her, the glint in his eye enough to tell Geralt that whatever he'd said, he wasn't sorry knowing it would transformed.

She raised an eyebrow at his words, but didn't recoil in horror. She hummed and ran her fingers through Jaskier's hair, her nails digging into his scalp. He winced, but kept his eyes locked on Geralt. She squeezed his head and chanted in Elder. Jaskier's heart rate sped up and his breaths grew shaky. His eyes slid closed. 

"Lay down."

He moved slowly, trancelike. It reminded Geralt of the night he found Jaskier. Once he lay on his back, she traced patterns over his chest, leaving glowing trails in her wake. She pressed her palm to his sternum, her lips moving with no sound. Jaskier's teeth clenched and his body tensed, his back lifting from the bed. She yanked her hand away, and he fell back to the bed, gasping. 

Geralt stepped to the bed, "Jaskier?"

He blinked and patted Geralt's arm. A sheen of sweat covered him as the lines of magic faded. 

"I can't tell you how to break this curse," the witch said, breathing hard. She braced herself on the table beside the wall. 

Geralt pounced on her turn of phrase. "You know what it is then? You can break the curse."

Jaskier turned his head away, drawing his arms across his chest. He hated subjecting Jaskier to these examinations by pellars and hedge witches and every village fortuneteller they came across. It always happened the same way, the ones who possessed real magic poked and prodded and chanted, weaving magic around him, sometimes in him, but for the first time since he'd found the bard in the garbage of Zhoda, he heard understanding in the examiner's voice. 

"I didn't say that. I said I can't tell you how to break this curse." She brushed her hand across Jaskier's cheek, and he shuddered in response. She turned back to Geralt. "No one can tell you how to break this curse."

Jaskier huffed a breath out. Geralt looked at him, and he'd covered his face with his hands. He drew them down slowly, and a look of determination had replaced the discomfort of the witch touching him. He pulled on his chemise and moved for the rest of his clothes. 

"So this curse can't be broken? He'll be like this the rest of his days?"

"Curses are like riddles. They all have solutions."

Geralt threw his hands up. "Mages and their fancy speech!"

"I'm doing your friend a favor, Witcher."

"A favor bought with coin!"

"Boy!" she called toward Jaskier, "Take your witcher away from here, before I am tempted to curse him myself."

Jaskier staggered, getting his foot into the boot he'd been putting on when she spoke. He snatched up the rest of his clothes and his other boot, before grabbing Geralt's arm and giving him an imploring look.

Geralt growled, but relented under Jaskier's pleading expression. "Fine. We'll go."

She cackled behind them, making Geralt's anger boil within him. He stopped just outside her door. "Put your clothes on, Jaskier. We don't need you arrested for lewdness."

Jaskier settled down to comply. This was the last time Geralt put Jaskier through this. She knew what the curse was and refused to tell him. What was the point in continuing to seek out lesser magic users? An Aretuza or Ban Ard mage might be able to break the curse, but they were equally likely to use the power thrumming through Jaskier's body as a spell component without regard to what it did to him. Sorcerers and Sorceresses weren't a risk Geralt was willing to take. 

The only lead he'd gotten was the possibility of feeding Jaskier a toxic concoction that would cause hallucinations with the slim chance of bypassing the curse to allow him to speak for a few moments before possibly killing him with its poison. Geralt refused to consider it.

Jaskier shrugged the heavy leather jerkin on over the long tunic he wore over his chemise. The clothes were far from his normal attire, but like this, it was easier for them to go unnoticed and unrecognized. The jerkin was for the times the bard did draw attention to himself. Geralt cared more about Jaskier not drawing attention with his clothes, than the damage it did to Jaskier's pride. Although looking at the way Jaskier's shoulders slumped, the way he'd stopped responding in public places...perhaps it would have been better to consider his pride sooner.

Jaskier stomped away, muttering under his breath. Geralt felt a perverse stab of joy to see anger banish the apathy. Geralt followed far enough behind that he wouldn't overhear the vile words the curse twisted Jaskier's words into. Too close and Jaskier would fall silent. 

Geralt missed the sound of Jaskier's voice. 

They returned to their camp. Jaskier turned to camp chores without looking at Geralt. How many times had he told the bard to shut up, to stop talking, that the sound of his voice grated, or that his singing was annoying? What wouldn't he give now to be so annoyed? Geralt left camp to hunt. 

When he returned, his medallion tingled once more. Discordant tones rang from the lute and Jaskier's words would make a harpy blush, but Geralt stood and listened, anyway. Jaskier stopped and put away the lute with a sigh. He turned toward Geralt and waved. 

Geralt started, guilt at having eavesdropped jolting through him. "You don't have to stop."

Jaskier glared at him, then turned his back. 

"No insult meant."

He got no response other than the stiffening of Jaskier's back. This, too, had become commonplace. Geralt reached for him, but let his hand drop. Jaskier resisted every overture Geralt offered when he was in these moods. He didn't want pity. Geralt understood that, but it wasn't pity for Jaskier that motivated him to keep trying. If he failed the bard, he'd be alone again, and having tasted companionship, he was loath to give it up. Jaskier wouldn't accept talk or physical comfort now, but Geralt could feed him. 

Jaskier had hung their small pot over the fire with water heating. Geralt butchered the rabbit he'd killed. He added the bones to the pot of water. The chunks of meat he put into their small frying tin, added salt, powdered sage, and a dab of lard, and shook it over the fire until the meat browned. He added the meat to the boiling water. 

They had good rations right now. Lard, flour, spices, some dried peas, even sugar, and salt pork for nights Geralt didn't have time to or luck in hunting. They'd even bought a sack of vegetables from a farmstead the day before, so they had onions, garlic, radishes, carrots, and eggplant. Jaskier had chopped vegetables for the stew, and Geralt spotted a basket of kurka and borowik mushrooms sitting beside them. 

"Did you collect leaves for the bread?"

Jaskier relented on giving him the cold shoulder and passed the leaves over. 

"The mushrooms will be good."

Jaskier shrugged. 

Geralt mixed flour, salt, and water together in his bowl, and patted the dough into flat cakes. He wrapped them in the leaves and set them to the side. He'd bury them in the white ash at the edge of the fire a few minutes before the stew was done. 

Jaskier fiddled with the lacing on his jerkin. Silent and staring into the distance. 

"It's time to go to Oxenfurt."

His head jerked up, and he shook it frantically. 

"I need to talk to those present when the curse became active."

Jaskier rubbed his side and shook his head. 

"I won’t let any harm come to you. "

He snorted and threw his hands up in a 'Fine!' gesture, before stomping away from camp. 

Geralt ignored the theatrics for now. He'd known Jaskier wouldn't like this idea. He'd been as adamant as one could when mute that they not go to Oxenfurt. Geralt had respected his wishes...before he'd exhausted every other option. Someone in Oxenfurt had cursed Jaskier. Even if the culprit was absent, someone knew something. The bard would get over this. Despite these occasional flares of temper, Jaskier had been remarkably compliant. 

Too compliant.

Geralt's medallion tingled faintly. Jaskier was barely in range to set it off, but Geralt appreciated knowing he was near. He added the vegetables and stirred the stew. The mushrooms he chopped and fried in the pan drippings from browning the rabbit. The scent of it all made his mouth water and stomach grumble. He'd have to find a monster to hunt if they wanted to keep eating this well. He'd spent almost all his coin on healers, witches, and pellars in a search for a cure. 

They'd have to pay for an inn to investigate in Oxenfurt. Finding contracts was harder without Jaskier's ability to ferret out rumors and tales that no human willingly shared with a witcher. 

Jaskier didn't return to the camp until full dark. Geralt ignored him as he dug the pot out of the warm ashes and they ate their food. Trying too hard backfired every time. Jaskier sighed repeatedly and kept glancing at Geralt. He ate his entire portion of the meal for the first time in a week. He washed the dishes and when he returned, he sat next to Geralt, leaning into Geralt’s side. 

"You don't have anything to apologize for, Jaskier."

He sighed and patted Geralt's knee. 

Geralt wrapped his arm around Jaskier's shoulders and snugged him in close to his side. "No more witches."

Jaskier nodded. He hesitated before pointing at the fire, miming stirring, then drinking.

"The potion? Hieronymus Dreams?"

Jaskier nodded again.

"No. It might kill you. It's nightmares and misery, Jaskier."

Jaskier sighed and shrugged, giving up the argument in favor of staring at the fire. Geralt considered the exchange. They'd fought about this. The last of Jaskier’s anger had flared bright and spent itself arguing for taking the potion. He still brought it up at times like this, but gave in fast, the apathy growing deeper and more disturbing after each refusal.

They sat beside the fire until Geralt gave in. "Sleep, Jaskier." He lay down on the bedroll without a sound or hand motion, complying too easily. It took Geralt a long time to fall asleep.


	5. Murky Waters

###  **Chapter Five: Murky Waters**

A band played as they trudged into the village of Murky Waters to inquire about the contract offer they'd found on a notice board in another town. Jaskier had been having a good day. He insisted on exploring the ruins outside town, pointing at the flowers, the standing arches, the statues, and the remains of mosaics in the floor. To fill the silence, Geralt talked. He talked about the statues and the mosaics, the elves who built this ruin, the color of the flowers, the clouds passing in the sky. Some days Jaskier appreciated the effort Geralt made to talk while he couldn't, others he took it as pity and his mood soured. Jaskier had let him talk without becoming quiet and glaring at Geralt for trying too hard. 

It was a _good_ day until they heard the band. 

Jaskier stopped. His fingers twitched in time with the lute. He shuddered and his eyes dropped to the ground. He didn't look up as they passed the crowd by the bandstand. Geralt handed him items from Roach, and Jaskier accepted them, expressionless and silent as he followed Geralt into the inn. 

The innkeeper was rotund, and his mustache covered almost his entire lower face. He charged them a fair rate for the room, which was an unexpected pleasantry. Jaskier sat on the bed, staring at the wall, the sound of the band clear through the thin walls, and Geralt pretended not to see Jaskier swipe away tears. 

"I'm going to talk to the alderman about the contract."

Jaskier didn't even shrug, and Geralt retreated from the room. He refused to force Jaskier to either break down in front of him or suppress it to save what was left of his pride. Why did they have the misfortune of arriving while a band entertained? 

Geralt found the alderman in his office near the square. The fucking band's music echoed loudly in the small space, and Geralt wanted to hate them for being able to have music, but hated himself for the thought. The curse wasn't their fault. The alderman described a gruesome visage of a woman luring men, women, and children into the fields at night, and the horrifying screaming that lasted sometimes for hours with no bodies found in the mornings. 

"A devourer, from the sounds of it, and not a young, reckless one. This won't be an easy job."

"We understand! This is a prosperous town. We can afford to pay a witcher what he's worth."

The man quickly agreed to the first number Geralt threw out to open the negotiations, and Geralt accepted the lack of haggling with gratitude. The number would be enough to pay for accommodations and food in Oxenfurt for two weeks if they watched their coppers. 

"I’m headed out to kill the monster that has been tormenting this region," Geralt began. 

The man gulped. "W-will you be returning?"

"I will. My companion is mute. He'll be staying here until I return. I expect you to keep the room for him, serve him three meals a day, and prepare a bath for him tonight. If I return and find that anyone, _anyone_ , in this town has mistreated him, _you_ will be the first I visit." Geralt let the threat hang in the air. Better to let the man fill in the details himself.

Back in the room, Jaskier lay on the bed, facing the wall. "Jaskier, I got the contract. It's lucrative, but it might take me a few days to finish it. I made the arrangements with the innkeeper for you."

Jaskier sat up. The salty odor of tears grew stronger, and his eyes were red and puffy. He smiled in spite of it and gripped Geralt's shoulder. He held Geralt's gaze for a long moment before slowly bringing their foreheads together.

"Thank you. I'll be safe, and return as soon as I can."

Jaskier nodded slightly and released him. Geralt gathered the things he needed. Jaskier watched him from the bed, silent and motionless. He hadn't forgiven Geralt yet for insisting they go to Oxenfurt. Geralt would happily listen to him complain about it the rest of the season if he found the secret to breaking the curse. 

The alderman had conveniently forgotten to mention that the devourer wasn't the only beast he'd encounter. The giant centipede was an unpleasant surprise and thank Melitele that his armor took the brunt of the initial acid spray. The beast burrowed so fast that he barely managed to pull his sword before its entire body—double the length of his own—disappeared underground. He cast a hasty yrden sign and waited for it. It erupted out of the ground and coiled itself around him, crushing the air from his lungs, but it made the fatal mistake of not capturing his arms. His sword struck true and when he caught his breath, the monstrous insect lay dead in a loose loop around him. 

He had to meditate at length to dissipate the shakiness. He'd come so close to being too slow. He knew he'd die fighting a monster one day. He'd accepted that, but he had someone to care for. He had to be fast enough for years longer. This fear, while it provided motivation to live, was likely to kill him. 

Vesemir's words about not getting too attached echoed in his head. _Too late, old man_.

He collected specimens from the centipede and bundled them in a safe place to retrieve later. If the town wouldn't pay for nearly killing him by omission, he hoped to sell the trophies and alchemical ingredients in another town. The exorbitant fee the alderman agreed to with no haggling now made Geralt wary. What else had the man left out? 

Geralt approached the devourer with greater caution than he'd planned, scouting and observing it for a day and night before attacking. Nothing about the beast was unexpected. It had no mates, and while it wasn't a youngling, it wasn't an ancient specimen either. The battle with it went smoother than the one with the centipede. He collected his evidence for the alderman, picked up the centipede parts and walked back to town. With the delays, he'd been gone for three days. 

He hoped the band had moved on quickly. He hoped that Jaskier was in a better mood, and that he hadn't been too worried when it took longer than usual. A child playing in the orchard at the edge of town screamed and ran for the village square when he spied Geralt marching along with the centipede mandibles reaching up over his shoulders from the top of his pack. By the time he reached the first houses people were pouring out of houses and shops, calls were passing further and further into the distance, radiating out. "The witcher is back!" "The witcher brought trophies!" "Come and see!"

It was one of the better responses he'd ever gotten to a return from a hunt, and he doubtlessly had Jaskier's songs to thank for it. He searched the crowd of faces around him, expecting to see Jaskier. He'd never been able to resist checking for himself that Geralt was whole and uninjured. After three days and nights of near constant alertness, Geralt longed for the bard's mother-henning. 

Jaskier wasn't among the crowd. 

Geralt collected his money from the alderman and even haggled a price for the centipede on top of the agreed upon rate for the devourer. Jaskier's continued absence unsettled Geralt more with every passing moment. Even while silent and uncommunicative in town, he'd been eager to reconnect after other contracts. 

Geralt rushed to the inn. The innkeeper was nervous, fluttering his hands and not meeting Geralt's gaze. Concern blossomed into fear. "Where is he?"

"I-I—"

Geralt leaned into the man's space. " _Where is he_?" 

"I tried to stop him! He wouldn't listen!"

Geralt slammed his hand on the bar. "Who?"

"Your companion. The mute! He came down not long after you left. Dressed for travel. His pack and everything."

"And?" Geralt already tired of trying to drag information from the man. 

"He had a piece of paper with him. Put it on the bar. Mimed writing. Insisted that I copy the letters at the top of the paper. Then he left. I tried to stop him, but he pushed past me. I considered calling a few men together to detain him, but after what you said, I didn't dare!"

Geralt rubbed his forehead with his fingers. "Show me the letters you copied."

_Witches Mannikin_

An old term for mandrake root. Chills ran up Geralt's spine. He never imagined Jaskier would sneak away to do this. Hieronymus Dreams was poison going by a pretty name. Jaskier was no herbalist. No alchemist. If he got any of the ingredients wrong, any of the quantities… "Which way did he go?"

It took an hour of questioning to learn that Jaskier had bought mandrake root and poppy seeds from the herbalist. Could he be desperate enough to try making the potion alone? Where had he gotten the other ingredients? Belladonna and black hellebore… Fuck. They'd camped in prime land for them, near the last witch. Henbane grew around ruins Jaskier had been so eager to poke around the day they arrived in Murky Waters. Jaskier likely had everything he needed to brew the potion, except the knowledge of how to do it without killing himself. 

Geralt inquired at every stall in the market if they'd seen a young mute man with dark hair, if they knew where he was going, or where he had gone, growing more frantic with every negative answer. Jaskier must have planned on being found, or he wouldn't have left the message. It wasn't until Geralt had given up and picked a direction to ride that he found Jaskier's next message. 

"I heard you were asking about your mute friend."

Geralt paused his hasty motions of cinching Roach's saddle. "Yes. I was."

"Seemed likeable enough."

Geralt turned on the man. He made an effort to contain the menace he felt billowing out from him, but if the way the man flattened himself to the opposite stall was any indication, he failed. "You know where he went."

"He came here. Asked for work. Well, made gestures like he wanted work. This is a tiny village. I don't need no more hands." 

Geralt growled at the man for wasting his time and turned back to the saddle. 

"But I told him where he could find work!"

"Where?"

"That farm on the road from Mirthe. The couple what lives there is old. They have a soft spot for hard luck cases. They take in travelers who can't make it to Murky Waters before dark, so they always have work. I wrote him a note telling them I sent him."

At least Geralt now knew where Jaskier intended to carry out this idiocy. "Thank you," Geralt said to the man, and offered him an oren. The man grabbed it with a smile and scuttled out of the stable. 

Geralt set out on the road, and by dusk reached a farm with a sign showing they worked as a waypoint. The elderly farm holder paused in splitting wood to greet Geralt when he approached. "Are you looking for a place to sleep, stranger?"

"I'm looking for a man. He was looking for work. About this tall, young, brown hair, blue eyes, mute. The stable hand in Murky Waters sent him this way."

"What would you want with a mute?" The man's grip tightened on the axe.

"To save his life."

"Seems odd to me that an armed man would ride up looking for another 'to save him.' What is your name?"

"Geralt of Rivia."

The man took a step back. "The witcher?"

"Yes."

"We heard a few hours ago that you killed the beasts that've been haunting Murky Waters. Is the mute you're looking for dangerous?"

"Not to anyone other than himself, and that's what I intend to prevent. You've clearly seen him. Tell me where he is."

The man sighed. "He arrived three days ago. Late afternoon. Told us through hand motions he was mute, but understood. The wife took a shine to him, declared he needed to be fed and that he could sleep in the barn as long as he liked if he helped with chores. He's been a decent hand, though he was ill today. Couldn't stay out of the privy."

The hellebore. Jaskier was purging in preparation to take the Hieronymus Dream. "He's here?"

"Should be in the barn. He begged to be let off work right after the messenger came through about your victory."

"How long ago was that?"

"About mid-afternoon."

"Show me." Geralt followed the man, knowing he was already too late. Jaskier knew he'd be found. He knew the potion took time to take effect—less time than it had been since that messenger had arrived. Why did the gossip have to speed out of the village so fast?

Jaskier wasn't in the barn, but his tracks were clear. Everyone had a unique gait they were largely unaware of. Jaskier's left foot had a habit of rolling to the inside, and his boots wore unevenly at the heel and ball on that side. He compensated by putting slightly more weight on his right leg with each stride. Geralt smiled. The imperfections were small, but he'd recognize the pattern anywhere. Jaskier had walked all over this barn. 

The farmer waited by the door, the axe clutched in his hands. "He should have been here." 

Geralt examined the stall Jaskier had slept in. It was clean and dry. The hay was fresh and two thick blankets hung neatly on the divider. Jaskier's pack and lute sat in the corner. The scent of hellebore induced sickness clung to the area, but Geralt found no underlying fear. The farmers had treated him well. 

"Thank you for showing him kindness." 

"No less than we'd do for any traveler in need of aid."

"Not many have been so decent to him."

"We saw that in him. And you, witcher, have you been decent to him?"

"I try." Geralt looked up, and the man was _evaluating_ him, trying to decide if he should challenge Geralt on Jaskier's behalf. "I want him to be safe."

The man stepped back, uncertain, but willing to stay out of the way.

Geralt circled the barn, searching for the most recent tracks. He found them leading into the field. "I'll follow him from here."

The farmer twisted the axe in his grip. "I can't stop you, witcher. I know that. But if you are an honorable man like the songs say, bring the boy by here before you leave the region. The wife took a real shine to him. She'll worry."

"If I can save him from himself, I will." He took a step, but stopped. "Would you stable Roach? I have coin."

The old man looked relieved at knowing Geralt would have to return for his horse and nodded. "Of course, Witcher." As Geralt removed the saddlebags from Roach, the man said, "I'm Marek, Marek Pisula." 

"I'll bring Jaskier with me when I pick up Roach."

Marek nodded and sat the axe down to begin unsaddling Roach. 

Geralt slung the saddlebags over his shoulder. His stock of herbs might help Jaskier. He followed the tracks as fast as he could. Made right, the potion had a long lead in time before the drinker got to the worst effects. He could be in time to support Jaskier through the miserable days of horrifying visions he'd consigned himself to. If not made right… Geralt would… 

He shook his head. No, he wasn't making funeral plans yet.


	6. Axii

###  **Chapter Six: Axii**

Jaskier's tracks led across the fields to the stacked stone fence that bordered it. On the other side, the land fell sharply, and in the hollow, firelight shone brightly. Geralt's medallion began tingling as he drew closer. He lived! Jaskier's voice carried over the night air. He was singing off key with no discernible tune—normal with the curse—but his voice slurred, and he stomped, uneven and heavy. 

"Butcher!" Jaskier sloppily flung his arms open and overbalanced. He staggered and caught himself on a tree trunk. He held a cup in his hand. 

Geralt lunged forward and snatched the cup out of his hand. He sniffed. The poisonous, bitter fumes burned his nose. "How much did you drink?" 

Jaskier blinked at him. "Harpies are lovely creatures!" 

Geralt shook his head. That was nonsensical, even for the curse. He checked the pot hanging over the fire. It contained the dregs of potion. The high mark a third of the way up the pot showed the original depth of the concoction. Why had he made so much? A cupful was too much, and at least four cupfuls were missing. Maybe the proportions were off. Maybe it was more dilute than intended. Maybe...

Jaskier smiled at him and reached for the cup. He was still drinking it. A sliver of hope surged in Geralt that he wasn't too late. He caught Jaskier under the arm and took him to his knees. "This is necessary."

"Wha—?"

Geralt squeezed Jaskier's bearded cheeks, forcing his mouth open shoving his fingers deep into Jaskier's mouth. Geralt held him as he gagged and vomited. The smell was foul, bitter, like the drink. When he stopped, Geralt dragged him away from the mess. Jaskier hadn't vomited up nearly enough of it. 

Jaskier flailed until Geralt released him. He curled up on his side, clutching his stomach.  
He crouched beside Jaskier. "How much did you drink?"

Jaskier glared at him, hurt and anger in his expression. 

Geralt would apologize for what he'd just done when he knew whether or not Jaskier was dying. "Did you drink the whole pot?"

Jaskier nodded. 

"Fuck." Geralt fell onto his ass. What could he do? A talented mage might keep Jaskier's heart from exploding, could make him keep breathing when he forgot to, but there was no mage in Murky Waters or Mirthe. The deadly effects would run their course one way or the other long before they reached a mage. 

Geralt had to move while Jaskier remained quiet. He needed water for tea and for cooling when Jaskier's temperature rose. A small stream ran along the base of the hollow. The water was cold and clean, bubbling up from a spring within sight of the camp. The farmer had built a spring box over it to keep it free of debris. A small dam formed a shallow pool large enough to water three horses at once, or stretch one feverish bard out.

Jaskier had picked an ideal location. Geralt removed his armor and swords, and collected water in his camping pot. A blanket spread over a leaf pile near the fire would keep Jaskier warm as needed, and the firewood stock would hold for the night. He brushed his hand over Jaskier's forehead. He was warm, and his face was flushed. His heart beat fast, but not dangerously so, yet. 

He flopped onto his back and giggled. "Geralt of Rivia went to see Olivia. He shook her tree and fell to his knee. And there he'll be." He rolled onto his stomach, laughing hard, and tried to get on his hands and knees, but kept falling back into the leaves. 

Geralt frowned and touched his medallion. It hadn't tingled with Jaskier's nonsense. The potion's effect had thwarted the curse! He pulled Jaskier up and supported his balance to keep him sitting on his knees. "Jaskier, what happened when you found out you were cursed?"

He smacked his lips. "M' throat hurts."

Geralt held the water skin for him. The thirst would soon grow maddening. "How did you find out you were cursed?"

"Geralt? I… Where are we?"

"It doesn't matter. How did you find out about the curse?"

"I hate the curse."

"Yes. How did it start?"

"Don't know."

"Damn it, Jaskier! Now that you can talk, you’re too addled by the drug to say anything useful. This is why I didn't want to do this!"

Jaskier's expression crumpled, and tears began.

Fuck! He knew better than showing temper to someone affected by this potion. It magnified moods a hundredfold, and when the hallucinations began, a bleak mood would make an already horrific experience worse. He wrapped his arms around Jaskier and soothed his hands over Jaskier’s back. "It’ll be all right. I’ve got you."

Jaskier sniffed mightily and pulled away. "Geralt? Why are you hugging me?"

Geralt kept a grip on Jaskier's arms. The bard could barely hold his head upright. Any chance for getting information was rapidly passing. "Did you fight with anyone at Oxenfurt?"

"Oxenfurt…"

"Yes. Think. What happened?"

"Honeyed words." The slur in his words grew more pronounced.

"Whose honeyed words?"

"Mine. I manip-manpul-manipolate words."

"Who said that?"

"Geralt? Wh-where are we?"

"You manipulate with honeyed words. Who said that, Jaskier?"

"It's true!" He flung his arms over his head. "They—shouting, hitting, kicking, a knife. I thought they killed me."

"Who?"

"Everyone. Guards. Soldiers. Villagers. My f-friends."

"I'm with you, Jaskier."

"No! Can't cure this." He smacked Geralt in the eye, trying to cup his cheek. "That's—" he looked around the clearing with understanding in his eyes. "They weren't wrong. My only value is my voice, and without it, I'm nothing. I'm no worth to you like this. Maybe I never was at all. That's what I needed to tell you; why I drank it. Leave me to my fate, Geralt."

"Never."

The spark of understanding faded from Jaskier's eyes. Geralt had to take several deep breaths before he trusted himself to speak. He hadn't realized Jaskier's self-loathing in the face of the curse extended this deep. 

"Tell me who said you manipulate with honeyed words."

"Do you see them?"

"Look at me. Only me. Who said it?"

"He was right."

Geralt ground his teeth to resist the urge to shake sense into the bard. "Who?"

Jaskier began singing—a song Geralt had never heard him sing before.

"You are a beauty, a painted rose  
Rain of watercolor, beautiful prose  
Colors of my words, my muse  
These are my designs of you."

He broke off, his heart rate jumping. He clawed at himself. "Get them off! Get them off!"

Geralt laid him down on his side. Jaskier writhed under the assault of his mind. 

_Axii. See reality._

Jaskier lay quietly, but his heart beat too fast, he breathed too slowly, and his skin had progressed from flushed to splotchy with heat. Geralt yanked Jaskier's boots off and scooped him up without undressing him. He'd talked too long, not paying enough attention to the physical symptoms. 

The sultry summer air hung heavy around them. Henbane drove a body's temperature up and mandrake stopped sweating. Geralt sat Jaskier in the cool stream and stretched his legs out along the pool. The weakness of mind induced by the poison magnified the effects of Axii, and Jaskier was wholly pliant. Geralt grumbled, but sat down behind Jaskier to support his head. Their clothes would dry, hopefully without too much damage.

He splashed water over Jaskier's hair and listened to his heart rate. Jaskier’s breaths came quick and shallow. Had he learned anything of use from Jaskier's jumbled words? 

Geralt worked the laces of Jaskier's tunic and chemise open. The tone of the skin on his chest was near normal now. As if on cue, Jaskier's teeth started chattering. Geralt wet his hair before he stood up, pulling Jaskier up with him. Jaskier surprised him by taking most of his own weight and standing in place when Geralt stopped. He wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. Getting that long tunic off would be much easier with Jaskier standing. 

He pulled it up and raked it over Jaskier's head. It took some effort and bracing on the nearest tree to get his arms disentangled. The chemise came free easier, and then he moved to the trousers. As soon as he began unlacing them, Jaskier broke free of axii. 

"What are you—" He looked at Geralt and screamed. He slid to the ground, shaking, and covered his head with his arms.

Geralt had hoped to get past the danger to his body before the hallucinations got so bad. He had to get the wet clothes off. Geralt moved slowly and spoke softly, as if he were trying to soothe a spooked horse. 

"Easy now, Jaskier."

He flinched and curled tighter at the sound of his name. 

"Easy now. I won't hurt you. I need to get those wet clothes off you."

It didn't matter how softly he spoke. He kept screaming even after Geralt released him and backed away. His gaze swept across his bare feet and he screamed louder, pulling himself back on his elbows. His skin was already reddening as he overheated himself. 

_Axii_

There would come a time when he'd be unable to cast it without rest and meditation. He took off his own clothes except his drawers and settled Jaskier back in the water. He would keep casting the sign long enough to get past the danger of overheating or heart failure, whatever the cost. If it saved Jaskier, he would pay it. 

Jaskier fought him faster this time, while they sat in the water. Geralt wrestled him into a solid hold. After a few minutes, the resistance lessened and Geralt relaxed his hold. Jaskier twisted to cling onto Geralt, pressing his face into Geralt's chest. His rough beard scraped and scratched as he shook. His heart beat too fast, but at least while he was aware, and scared, he breathed better. 

With Jaskier throwing axii off so fast, Geralt had to be careful to save it for moments of genuine danger like earlier. He rocked them slightly, and sang softly, "Hey, hey, hey Falcons/Skirting mountains, forests, rivers, and valleys/Ring, ring, ring little bell/My steeped little skylark. Hey, hey, hey Falcons/Skirting mountains, forests, rivers, and valleys/Ring, ring, ring little bell/My steeped.../Ring, ring ring."

He didn't remember the verses and sang it slower and softer than it was during festivals. The sound seemed to soothe Jaskier, so he repeated it again and again while Jaskier trembled in his arms.

"I'm cold." Jaskier swallowed. "Thirsty."

Geralt grinned. He hadn't thought Jaskier lucid enough to speak. "Walk to the bedroll, and I'll get you a drink."

Jaskier nodded, but pressed his face harder to Geralt's chest. "Don't make me look at it," he whispered. 

"I won't. Keep your eyes closed. I've got you."

Geralt stood them up and Jaskier clung to him, flinching and whimpering at imagined sounds. He didn't speak sense the rest of the night. Geralt moved him in and out of the water, used axii on him another half dozen times, and watched him shake apart from the fear in between. 

How long had he been awake now? Geralt couldn't remember when he'd last slept. Even a witcher had limits. A moment of inattention to collect water, a blink that became a doze, a misjudgement that this time, Jaskier had truly lost consciousness—any opening no matter how small was a potential escape. 

Jaskier slipped away, running from the visions, heedless of the danger, and Geralt’s inattention let him gain a large head start. Geralt chased after him into the dark woods, only finding him by the sound of his heartbeat. It beat so fast it sounded like a constant thrum. Geralt would never forgive himself if he fucked this up, if something happened to Jaskier because he couldn't keep his fucking wits about him for just one more night.

Geralt trudged back into the camp with Jaskier draped over his shoulder. The bard's skin burned with fever as he mumbled nonsense. He turned to the stream, needing to bring Jaskier's temperature down. He lay Jaskier in the water and wrapped himself around him, not daring to loosen his grip. The lumpy bed of water-smoothed mossy stones lay beneath them as Geralt supported Jaskier's head.

Exhaustion weighed on him, but every time his eyes drifted shut, Geralt bit his cheek to rouse himself enough to reopen them. Letting his guard down wasn't an option. He gave up on moving to the bedroll. Jaskier refused to walk, and Geralt didn't have the energy to carry him. Axii was out of the question until he'd rested. He dragged Jaskier out of the water onto the muddy bank. Sticks and sharp rocks jabbed into his skin, but he welcomed the irritations to help stay awake. 

Jaskier was too still. Geralt prodded his shoulder, "Jaskier?" Was the bard breathing deeply enough? 

The moments of rest shifted into mania, and Geralt switched to singing a soothing song. The fear for Jaskier's heart giving out made his own race. 

As the sun rose, Jaskier started to sweat and shiver. Geralt felt optimistic for the first time since he realized how much potion Jaskier had drunk. Sweating meant the worst of the physical effects had passed, and Geralt hoped that with a proper sleeping draught, Jaskier might bypass the dangerous effects the drug had on his mind. Since he wouldn't need to get them into the water again, Geralt carried Jaskier to the fire, though his muscles protested the work. He added elysium powder to a cup of dandelion tea, coaxing Jaskier to drink it. 

Jaskier fought him, refusing to open his mouth, flinging his head, knocking the cup with the medicine to the ground. He didn’t like forcing something down an unwilling throat. He didn’t like harming to heal. Particularly not someone he loved. Geralt remade the tea, let it cool, and forced Jaskier to drink it. The experience left them both shaking and Geralt rocked them, murmuring a litany of apologies.

Jaskier rapidly succumbed to the medicine. The ordeal had exhausted his body, and he needed the rest. Geralt lay behind him and tightened his arm over Jaskier's stomach. His mind churned over what’d happened, spinning and spinning over the things Jaskier’d said while lucid. How could he believe Geralt could abandon him in this state?

The image of Jaskier huddled in a hole in the trash, starved, beaten, so filthy Geralt hadn't recognized him at first, flashed into his mind. It haunted him even with Jaskier beside him on good days. He would never abandon the bard to that fate. 

He thought Jaskier understood that. 

Geralt's mind drifted on the edge of sleep. The song Jaskier sang before losing himself to the hallucinations drifted to the forefront. _'You are a beauty, a painted rose/Rain of watercolor, beautiful prose/Colors of my words, my muse/These are my designs of you.'_ It couldn't be that terrible and be an actual song, could it? He'd never heard the like from Jaskier's lips before. 

The pitiful doggerel that didn't even make it halfway to being a limerick, _'Geralt of Rivia went to see Olivia. He shook her tree and fell to his knee. And there he'll be.'_ sounded more like Jaskier's style than the song. Someone had said the line about manipulating with honeyed words to Jaskier. And it had hurt him, or he wouldn't have remembered the phrasing... 

_It's not his._

Geralt's eyes snapped open. He'd been pushing and pushing, who said that? And Jaskier sang a song that wasn't like him...because it wasn't him. Whatever state the next few days left Jaskier's mind in, Geralt had his next clue. If Jaskier wasn't able to travel, he'd plan for his care and then find the one responsible for this.


	7. Wildflowers

###  **Chapter Seven: Wildflowers**

Geralt had barely fallen asleep when Jaskier screamed. His elbow slammed into Geralt's nose, and when Geralt released his grip around Jaskier's middle, Jaskier bolted to sitting, screaming as if he were being eaten alive. His eyes were wide open, staring at a fixed point across the clearing. Geralt touched his shoulder, and Jaskier thrashed blindly, his hand connecting with Geralt's nose a second time. 

"For fuck's sake!" His nose throbbed and blood trickled down his cheek. 

Jaskier didn't seem to hear him. He was sweating heavily, his pupils were wide, and he hadn't stopped screaming. Geralt tried to cast axii, but his energy was too depleted to have any effect. "Jaskier, it's Geralt."

Fuck. This was no common delusion. Jaskier was in the throes of a nightmare. The elysium should keep a human asleep for hours—half a day, even. He'd thought sleep would protect Jaskier from the terror, not lock him away from comfort. 

Everything Geralt did seemed to integrate into Jaskier’s nightmare. Touch made it worse. Speech made it worse. Geralt knelt beside Jaskier miserably, watching him scream at things unseen until Jaskier began clawing at himself. 

Geralt grabbed his wrists. Jaskier fought like a demon, but Geralt refused to let go. They landed on their sides, Geralt's arms around Jaskier, holding his wrists tight. 

Every time Geralt thought it safe to let go, Jaskier began the struggle anew. Geralt's muscles shook with the sustained effort. How much longer could this last? How much longer could he last? He tightened his grip when Jaskier nearly pulled free. 

"Let the boy go."

Geralt looked up. He hadn't heard the farmer approach. "No."

"Let him go, or so help me, I-I'll chop you." Marek gripped the axe as he would to chop wood, and Geralt didn't doubt the man capable of serious damage with it. He'd seen the pile of wood the man had split.

"I'm keeping him from hurting himself."

Blood trickled from scratches on Jaskier's face—close, far too close to his eyes—and seeped into his beard and Geralt's sleeve pressed to Jaskier's chest. The man knelt beside them. Jaskier didn't react when the man brushed the hair away from his forehead. "I'm here to help, son." He waved his hand in front of Jaskier's face. 

Jaskier thrashed against Geralt's hold, screaming mindlessly. His voice was hoarse. The man pulled Jaskier's fingers away from his chest where they'd dug in. He looked at Geralt. "What spell is he under?"

"He drank Hieronymus Dreams potion. Too much of it."

"I've never heard of that." Marek sounded suspicious. 

"It's rare. Dangerous." Geralt was too tired to fight if the man raised a mob.

"Why would he do that?"

"Thought it would cure him." 

"It worked? He's making sounds now." 

"He could scream before," Geralt growled

Marek brushed Jaskier's hair away from his eyes, his expression soft. "Will he be like this forever?"

"Three days. Maybe four."

"You need rest, Witcher. I'll bring the wagon if you can get him to the top and over the fence."

"Where would you take him, Marek?"

"To the farmstead. Lena will feed you. We'll help watch him with you."

Geralt looked at the man. He was broad shouldered, toned and tan like a man who'd spent his long life culling wheat and had years of strength left in him. The offer was tempting. If he rested for awhile, he'd manage to think of a way to wake Jaskier. The nightmare might follow him, but awake, Geralt had been able to comfort him. Sometimes. Anything was better than this. "Thank you, Marek."

"I'll be back with the wagon shortly. Got an idea for the scratching."

Geralt sagged with relief. Not all humans were monsters. He forgot that sometimes.

Marek returned with heavy woolen over-mittens with long cuffs that had laces tacked on. "Hold his arm, Witcher."

Jaskier screams had fallen to exhausted whimpers, but he resisted being moved. They got the mittens on him, and Geralt slowly released him. Jaskier thrashed and pawed at his face and chest, but the mittens kept him from scoring himself with his fingernails. Geralt sprawled onto his back, breathing deeply, trying to draw in enough energy to face getting Jaskier to the top of that steep incline. 

"Even witchers suffer exhaustion?"

Geralt nodded.

"Get him up the hill. Then you can rest a bit."

Geralt stood up, suppressing a groan. He was as exhausted as he'd ever been. Marek grabbed Geralt's armor, saddlebags, and swords and trekked toward the wagon. Jaskier lay on the ground, eyes open and as unfocused as they had been the entire time he'd been trapped in the nightmares. Getting him on his feet to walk up the hill would never work. Geralt sighed.

"Give two minutes, Jaskier. Two minutes of not fighting me." 

Muscles tired and protesting the movement, Geralt crouched and lifted Jaskier’s right arm over his shoulder, and hooked his other arm around Jaskier’s thigh. And up. If Jaskier started to fight him now, Geralt didn’t know if he had the strength to hold on. 

Two minutes. 

Halfway up the tension left the bard’s body, and he was true dead weight. Geralt tightened his grip. Steady. He kept his pace even, smooth as possible, trying not to fall. The low stone wall posed a challenge. He was unsteady and didn't know if he'd make it back to his feet if he fell. Marek braced Geralt's back with his arm, and Geralt cleared the fence. Geralt didn’t waste any time laying Jaskier in the back of the wagon, lest the fight return, but the bard's eyes remained closed. 

Geralt held Jaskier's head in his lap to save him from the jolting of the slow-moving wagon. He was completely lax, his heart rate and breathing slower than Geralt felt was safe, but anything was better than the terror of the last hours. 

Marek pulled the wagon near the door of the house. "Take him inside, Witcher. Lena will show you where to take him."

Geralt slid off the wagon and pulled Jaskier over his shoulder. A short, stout, elderly woman held the door open for him. The house smelled of herbs and soap and sunshine. "Bring him this way, Geralt. We'll put him in the guest room. He'd scare the horses in the barn. The blankets are washable."

She led him up a narrow flight of stairs. "Put him on the bed."

Geralt laid Jaskier on the bed and arranged him on his side with the blankets tucked around his shoulders. He sat in the chair Lena had placed beside the bed and brushed Jaskier's hair away from his eyes. 

The woman touched Geralt's shoulder and motioned him to follow her into the hall. "I'm Lena. As you can probably smell I'm an herbalist. Tell me what he took, and what you've given him since then."

Geralt gave her a quick rundown of Hieronymus Dreams and Elysium. 

"You know where he slept in the barn?"

"Yes."

"Go sleep there. I'll attend him."

"I'll sleep here."

She planted her feet and gave him a look that brooked no argument. "Get in bed, young man. You'll hear him the moment he screams. Are you any good to him, dead on your feet?"

Geralt swayed on his feet. He looked back at Jaskier, pale and motionless on the bed. For now. His stamina was gone. Jaskier _needed_ him to sleep to renew his ability to cast axii or at least hold him. The bard was surprisingly powerful in his terror. Lena and Marek couldn't handle it, but neither could he without sleep. He bowed his head in defeat. "Swear you will wake me, if I don't."

She patted his arm. "I swear it, Geralt of Rivia."

Geralt stumbled down the stairs and into the barn. He spread a blanket over the hay and collapsed onto it, asleep as soon as he landed.

He woke to a bloodcurdling scream and raced back into the house. The sun hadn't reached its zenith yet. Jaskier pressed himself into the corner of the room, arms over his head, screaming. 

Lena watched from near the door. "He's asleep."

Geralt braced on the doorframe. "How much longer?"

"I have something that should wake him, if you can get close enough to him." She held up a vial. "Have him breath this in."

Geralt crouched beside Jaskier, blocking all avenues of escape, before touching him. He opened the pungent vial and snaked it through Jaskier's arms to his nose. The reaction was immediate. Jaskier jerked back, blinking at the room and looking at Geralt, _seeing_ Geralt. He sobbed and flung himself forward. 

Lena produced tea and a cup of porridge thinned with enough milk to drink. "Get him to drink while he's calm."

Geralt cajoled and pressured Jaskier into drinking both. It was an encouraging moment. The best of the day. Jaskier broke away from him not long after he finished the tea, pacing the six steps across the length of the room over and over. He skidded to a stop, staring at the bed. Color drained from his face and he whirled for the door. Geralt barely caught him before he escaped the room, and was forced to press him to the wall as Jaskier fought him, hitting, scratching, biting until his eyes rolled up and he fainted. Geralt took him back to the bed as his eyes fluttered open; held him to his chest and sang to him as he had the night before. 

Jaskier fell asleep, and Geralt gladly sank down beside him, falling asleep himself. It didn't last. The sleeping terror took Jaskier after only an hour of sleep, and the cycle began anew. Geralt lost track of time. Lena and Marek came in and out, with tea, with porridge, with kind words. 

Lena heard Geralt singing the chorus of the song again and again, and sang the verses for him, in the same soothing tempo and tone he used. He'd never really listened to the words before, the song washing over him as one more noise in a sea of humanity. The verses spoke of the singer's wish to be buried in their homeland on a hill in a sea of flowers, to be remembered by someone, to be visited from time to time in their final rest. 

Listening to the song, while holding Jaskier, as he twitched and moaned and came undone in his arms, Geralt felt as if a vise constricted his chest. 

Lena patted his shoulder when she finished. "It's not so bad, dear. The singer has someone to sing to, someone to ensure that their final wish will be carried out. They weren't alone, and that's all any of us can hope for in the end."

"I need to get fresh air."

"We'll take care of him."

Geralt stumbled into the fields. The world was dark under the new moon, but darkness couldn't stop him. He was a mutant. A monster created to kill. This endless struggle against an enemy he couldn't see, couldn't fight, couldn't kill ate at his nerves. The energy and drive in him to battle had to be released, so he ran. He ran until his heart raced and his legs quivered and the need to battle faded. 

The place he stopped might have been from the song. A hill overlooking the valley that held Lena and Marek's farm. A meadow filled with wildflowers dancing on the breeze under the stars. Jaskier would call it magical and so many more words. Words Geralt would never think of when describing an open patch of grass and weeds. He saw things useful for potions, a place more defensible than one that gave away the high ground. Jaskier would see the beauty. He might call it destiny that this spot is where Geralt stopped. 

Geralt spun on his heel and walked away from the meadow. Fuck destiny. Fuck destiny and fuck the stupid, self-loathing decisions of bards. Jaskier wouldn't be buried here. He was going to survive this. 

Geralt returned to the barn stall and slept until Jaskier's screams woke him with the rising sun. Lena and Marek had kept watch. Time blurred for Geralt. It had been a week since he'd slept more than brief naps. Jaskier spoke at times, lost and alone in his hallucinations, reacting to horrors, and Geralt's medallion didn't tingle. 

That was the fucking point of this potion, right?


	8. Cat Will Eat You

###  **Chapter Eight: Cat Will Eat You**

The third night, Geralt's medallion began tingling every time Jaskier spoke. The words were barely even words at that point, but the obscenities and threats forced Geralt to explain the curse to Lena and Marek. They accepted it and took the horrible things Jaskier said in stride. 

Jaskier was quieter now, more manageable, not because the images he saw were any less horrifying, but because he had nothing left to fight them. Geralt held him, rocked him, sang to him until he was hoarse, and Jaskier trembled and whimpered instead of fighting and screaming. Geralt wasn't sure it was better.

The fifth morning they sat propped in the corner of the guest bed, Geralt holding Jaskier against his chest, humming softly, when Jaskier began snoring. Jaskier hadn't slept long without screaming since the ordeal began, and Geralt didn't dare attempt drugging him again. Geralt braced himself for the sleep terrors to begin, but none came. Geralt drifted to sleep and didn't wake until near midday. They'd slid to their sides, and Geralt had a terrible crick in his neck from the awkward position. 

Jaskier touched the mittens together, looked at his hands with confusion, and repeated the process. 

Geralt sat up and tried to work the kinks out of his spine. "Do you understand me, today?"

The tapping continued. Geralt slid out of bed and pulled his boots on. If Jaskier was this quiet, maybe he could get more into him than porridge thinned with milk. 

"Butcher?"

He stopped with his hand on the door. He'd long since figured out that Jaskier was trying to say Geralt, and the blasted curse was transforming it into the thing he most dreaded hearing from a friend's mouth. He turned back with a smile. Jaskier hadn't directly addressed him in days. "Yes."

Jaskier waved his mitten clad hand. "People are right to call you a monster."

Geralt sat beside him and caught the waving hand. Jaskier's eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. "Your hand is fine. We put mittens on you."

Jaskier frowned at the mitten. "People are right…" 

Geralt stayed with him. Jaskier wasn't entirely free of the hallucinations yet, though they were milder than they had been. Jaskier groaned as he moved. 

Lena brought a cup of tea laced with herbs. "Give him this, it'll ease the muscle pain." Geralt had stopped analyzing the remedies Lena provided. Her herbal knowledge was extensive, and everything she'd provided had worked without causing further harm.

Jaskier babbled while drinking it. Snatches of nonsense and singing, "Red fields?" "Books?" _"Bulls goring eyes."_ "Kill?" "You hate me." "People are right…"

He kept coming back to the mittens. The look on his face as he asked over and over made Geralt's heart ache. "I'll take them off for a while, Jaskier."

He sat motionless as Geralt unlaced first one, and then the other mitten. They'd removed them at least once a day when he fell asleep to wash his hands. Bandages circled his palms where he'd cut himself with his fingernails. 

"Cats will eat you when you die?"

Geralt stroked his thumbs over the backs of Jaskier's hands. "It'll heal. Leave the bandages alone."

"Cats will eat you?" he asked, frowning.

Geralt sighed and released Jaskier's hands. 

Jaskier wiggled his fingers in front of his eyes as though they were the most amazing things he'd ever seen. Fear snaked around Geralt's heart. The one other person he'd seen survive this brew had been a mage, and even with his power, he hadn't escaped unscathed.

Lena brought food, and Jaskier ate only with constant prompting. He napped throughout the day and woke confused each time, but he seemed happy. He showed no awareness that his words weren't his own or that he shouldn't have trouble remembering a plate of food sat in front of him between bites. He greeted Geralt and Lena and Marek with smiles every time his gaze landed on them, and accepted affection and comfort from them without shame. 

As the sun set, Jaskier reached for him babbling about blood and death, and Geralt crawled into bed with him. Jaskier offered to rip out Geralt's liver and feed it to him, in a sleepy, carefree voice as he snuggled in chest to chest. Geralt rubbed circles over his back as the fear tightened its grasp. Jaskier was sweet like this. Pliable. It would be easy to love him the way one loves a pet, but the bard with his sharp wit and quick tongue would hate the thought of spending the rest of his days like this. 

The next day Jaskier was silent. 

Silent and malleable, as he had been the night Geralt found him in Zhoda. Geralt liked it less than he had the confusion and threats of the day before. There had been a spark of life in the confusion. This… Geralt moved him to the kitchen, so they could air the bedroom out. He folded Jaskier into a chair, and he stared blankly as Geralt, Marek, and Lena moved around, talked to him, fed him. There were no smiles, no enthusiastic threats, no reaction to affection. 

The fear in Geralt's heart turned to dread. Caring for him like this would be a full-time job. Nenneke perhaps? It had to be someone he trusted to not abuse a simpleton, no matter what he said, in case this silence alternated with the confusion of the day before. 

"He needs a bath, Geralt."

"I'll do it."

Lena gave him a stern look. "I've bathed more than enough children and invalids in my lifetime to not be bothered by nakedness."

Geralt looked at Jaskier, sitting on the chair vacant and the vice returned to his chest. "Let me do this for him this time, Lena."

She hugged him. Geralt didn't know how to react to the unexpected affection, and Lena stepped back before he thought to wrap his arms around her in return. "I'll watch him while you prepare the water."

As he had that night in Zhoda, Geralt took Jaskier to the bathing room. He was muddy from the many trips in and out of the pool of water in the stream. Greasy with sweat. The smell of blood and vomit clung to him no matter how they'd wiped him down with cloths. Jaskier walked if Geralt supported him with an arm around his waist and moved slowly. If he leaned him enough Jaskier's foot would swing forward like his body knew what to do even without his mind being present to control it. 

Standing in front of the steaming tub, Geralt said, "Give me some sign you don't want this and I'll take you back to your room."

Jaskier stared, as passive and non-responsive as he had been all day. Geralt sighed and rucked his tunic up before he made him sit on the bench. Getting Jaskier's arms out of the sleeves was far easier than it had been that night by the stream. Today, it was like undressing a man-sized doll. The scratches were healing. The bruises were in full bloom. 

He'd tried to be as gentle as he could. Jaskier was human. Fragile in comparison with a witcher, but he'd fought fueled by mindless terror. Some bruises came from instances of missing the signs, failing to contain Jaskier when he sprinted away from the horrors, and the blind crashing through the woods that followed before Geralt caught him. More came from holding Jaskier down as he screamed and fought and tried to injure himself. He sat in the bath with no reaction and gave no reaction as Geralt washed him. 

The bruising on his wrists and forearms were the worst, and Geralt trailed his fingers over them, swallowing hard at the way the shape so perfectly matched his hands. He glanced up at Jaskier's face, at the scratches streaking down his forehead and cheeks, the scabs that edged Jaskier's eyelids. He'd had no choice, and yet he should have found a better way. The swelling and purple crept up the backs of his hands, but the bones were intact. 

Jaskier's jaw was bruised under the scruffy beard from them forcing him to drink. If they got a spoonful in his mouth, he swallowed it. He'd never choked, but the way he fought and cried as they forced him to open his mouth…

"I am sorry, for all we had to do."

Jaskier stared. 

Geralt pulled him close, leaning over the edge of the tub, and rocking them slightly. "I never wanted this for you. I'd rather take you cursed the rest of your days than gone. I'm sorry I couldn't help you more."

Geralt shook his head to clear it. The water was getting cooler. He needed to wash Jaskier's hair and get him dry and warm. In this weakened state, Geralt worried how vulnerable Jaskier would be to other illnesses. Geralt scooped water over Jaskier's hair, and he blinked rapidly. Geralt waited. That was the most response he'd seen all day, but Jaskier settled back into staring, so Geralt washed his hair and beard quickly, singing the song he'd sang in the stream. It was the last time Jaskier had been enough in his right mind to make sense, so he found it fitting in a way. 

That night he ran across the fields and came to the meadow… Maybe that had been the end for his friend. A place to leave _Jaskier_. 

As he poured water over Jaskier's hair to rinse it, Jaskier's breathing picked up and he gripped the sides of the tub. 

"Jaskier?" The scent of tears filled his senses, and as Geralt looked at Jaskier’s face, he saw the wetness around his eyes. Jaskier’s shoulders trembled. 

"I hate you for what you did," Jaskier whispered. 

"Keep talking, Jaskier, I need to hear your voice." 

"I'm glad you're tall...It means there's more of you I can despise?" The water sloshed around him, spilling over the edge, as Jaskier surged forward, wrapping his wet arms around Geralt's middle and pressing his face to Geralt's chest.

Relief flooded Geralt, drowned him, bubbled over as laughter. "You’re back."

"Butcher?"

"I want to hear you."

"I swear, if you were any worse at this, you'd be doing the monsters' jobs for them."

"Out of the tub. The water's getting cold."

Jaskier frowned at him, but stepped out. He winced at the movement and looked questiongly at Geralt. 

"How much do you remember?"

"It gives me a headache just trying to think down to your level," Jaskier said. He shook his head and patted his mouth. 

"Get dressed. We'll talk somewhere warmer."

Lena had washed their spare clothes, and Jaskier's braies, chemise, and leggings were laid out. Jaskier picked up the chemise and turned it in his hands. He frowned and turned it some more before stopping. He stood staring at the floor, and Geralt quaked inside. 

"Jaskier?"

He looked up and smiled.

"Put your chemise on." Geralt pointed at the garment. 

Jaskier's eyes widened when he looked at his hands. He held the garment up. "Butcher, candle barrel fondler?"

Geralt took the chemise from him and pulled it over his head. "Put your arms in." 

He managed one arm then drifted off into staring, task forgotten.

"Put your arm in the sleeve, Jaskier."

He nodded and did it. Before he could drift off, Geralt handed him the braies, making sure to arrange them in his hands so he only had to step into them and pull them up. Jaskier did it without prompting, but the socks made no sense to him. His gaze drifted to the corner, and he paled. Geralt pulled him up to his feet. 

"You sucked the marrow from my bones," he whispered, clinging onto Geralt. 

Geralt glanced at the corner Jaskier stared at. Nothing there but a shelf of empty bottles. He understood what Jaskier meant, though. He wrapped an arm around Jaskier's shoulders. "I've got you. Don't look at them."

Jaskier sniffled and nodded. He walked with Geralt with no prompting needed, but most of his weight shifted to Geralt before they reached the guest room. Jaskier flopped onto his side on the bed, snoring before Geralt pulled the blanket over him. 

Geralt hovered. _You're acting like a broody hen, Witcher_. With that thought, he forced himself to sit in the chair near the bed and wait. The fear hovered, waiting to pounce. Jaskier spoke, showed understanding, but he'd faded so fast. Geralt knelt to meditate. He needed a clear mind to move forward.

Sometime later, Jaskier shifting on the bed brought him back to the room. Jaskier sat in the corner of the bed, his knees drawn up. His arms wrapped around his legs and he rested his forehead on his knees. Geralt sat in the chair and waited. 

Jaskier sighed. He pointed at Geralt and made a gesture resembling axii. 

"Yes. I did. Many times." 

Jaskier shuddered and turned his head away. 

Geralt laid his hands palm up on his knees, guilt crushing him. Guilt that he'd failed to use magical mind control on him more often or guilt that he'd resorted to it at all? He didn't know. Both? Several long minutes passed. Geralt didn't push.

Jaskier straightened. His lips were pressed into a thin line. He pointed at himself and mimed drinking, then choking.

"Yes. You drank Hieronymus Dreams."

Jaskier laid his head down and scrubbed his hand through his hair absently. 

They were separated by only an arms length, but were both alone in their misery. Geralt swallowed his guilt, and plunged ahead. "We need to talk."

Jaskier snorted and sat up to glare properly. 

Geralt had never been happier to be glared at. "You know what I mean."

He shrugged. 

Geralt decided to plunge ahead. "Someone told you that you 'manipulate with honeyed words.'"

Jaskier rolled his eyes and shrugged as he waved his hand dismissively through the air at the words.

"That's all you managed to say before the hallucinations hit. Are you telling me they don't mean anything?" 

Jaskier jerked back like Geralt had slapped him. His shoulders rounded, and he looked away. 

"You couldn't tell me the name."

Jaskier choked and covered his eyes with the crook of his elbow for a moment. With a shuddering breath, he faced Geralt. He mimed drinking and choking. His other hand waved around the room, over himself, and shook his head. 

"Not for nothing." Geralt sighed. "It's true that I didn't learn a lot. I never wanted you to do this. But you did. It was stupid." Jaskier flinched as if Geralt had struck him. "It was also brave. You made a sacrifice, and I won't waste it. You didn't give me a name, but you gave me a song."

Jaskier shrugged and motioned for Geralt to go on. 

He spoke the lyrics, _"'You are a beauty, a painted rose/Rain of watercolor beautiful prose/Colors of my words my muse/These are my designs of you.'"_

Jaskier made a face of disgust. 

"You recognize it."

Jaskier shuddered and nodded. 

"Does it belong to the one who said that to you?"

He nodded. 

"So that's the bard that cursed you."

Jaskier shook his head. 

"He didn't curse you?" 

He shook his head and shrugged. 

"Or you don't think it was him."

The shrugs grew more listless.

"Even if it wasn't him, we should go to Oxenfurt. Someone there knows something."

The shrug this time barely made it over the hunching of Jaskier's shoulders. He had the appearance of a beaten dog waiting for more blows. 

"Rest. I'll be back."


	9. Story Time

###  **Chapter Nine: Story Time**

Geralt stomped out of the house, ignoring Lena's questions. She hadn't hurt Jaskier in the attempts to keep him alive. He didn't look at her the way he… 

"Something happen with Jaskier?" Marek called from near the woodpile. 

"He's aware of his surroundings." 

"Thank Melitele! That was a nasty potion he took."

"It was for almost nothing!"

Marek offered the axe. At Geralt's frown, he said, "I'm going to do you a favor, son. You can chop all this wood for me, while I tell you a story."

Geralt smirked at being called son, by a man his own age, if not younger, and took the axe. "And the favor _you_ are doing _me_ is?"

"You need to vent that energy, before it explodes in a direction you'll regret, and you need to hear a good story."

Geralt picked up the first piece and began chopping. He soon fell into a rhythm and Marek began talking in cadence with the chopping. 

"I had a brother once." _Chop_. "I lost him." _Chop_. "There used to be a tavern." _Chop_. "Near Crookback bog." _Chop_. "Called The Humping Dragon." _Chop_. "Decent folk didn't go there." _Chop_. "Thieves. Bandits. Addicts." _Chop_. "I was young and dumb."

"Must have been to go there."

Marek squinted at him. "Less talking, more chopping. That's a big pile of wood."

Geralt humphed at him, but smiled at the audacity of the old man, as he swung the axe. 

"Henryk went with me. Said I needed a keeper. He was right. I stirred up the whole hornets' nest. They chased us. Out into the fields. We hid in the tall grain. They brought out dogs. We ran. I fell, and Henryk didn't." 

Geralt swung the axe faster as the story became more intense. 

"I got back up. I was alone. In the dark. Not even the stars or moon were out. Dogs and lanterns all around me. I ran into the bog. Waded in water up to my neck. I was sure drowners. The ladies. Something worse would get me."

Geralt grunted. Marek was right. Something should have eaten him. 

"All night I waded in that bog. Listening to the dogs baying in the fields. I crawled out when the sun rose. I ran home. Henryk was gone. I never found him. I searched the fields. Searched the bog. Even went back to the Dragon. And survived. Never saw my brother again."

Geralt stopped and stared at Marek. "What is all that supposed to mean?"

Marek smiled and shrugged. "It's just a story. I have the milking to do if you've got that."

Geralt frowned. It was a morbid tale, and he didn't see how it was relevant to him. Maybe the old man told that tale to everyone he conned into doing his work for him. He was right about one thing. Geralt had needed to expend energy. He finished chopping and then stacked all the wood neatly. They likely had enough to last the winter now. How long would it have taken Marek to finish it? Geralt shook his head. At least he'd done something useful to pay the couple back for all the kindness they'd shown. 

When he entered the house, Lena called to him from the hearth, "Bathe if you plan to eat at my table."

Geralt acquiesced. He stunk as bad as Jaskier had, likely. Possibly worse considering he'd been monster hunting in the days before nursing Jaskier through the ordeal. The water felt good. Scrubbing the grime from himself felt good. Putting on clean clothes felt good. He was thoroughly prepared to return to Jaskier and be patient with him. 

The room was empty. 

He tried not to worry. Jaskier couldn't have gotten far, and sure enough, there he was perched in a chair in Lena's kitchen, a steaming mug clasped in his hands. 

"Drink that while it's hot, dear," Lena said. 

Jaskier took a sip. 

"That's better. Keep drinking."

Geralt hung back, watching them. Jaskier was quiet, but he seemed less huddled in on himself, less beaten than he'd seemed in the room earlier. Geralt wandered into the main room. He'd walked through it several times, but he'd been so preoccupied by Jaskier that he'd not taken in more than the scent of herbs. This was a very large house for a lone farming couple. Too far from town to be an inn, too large for a family farm. The more Geralt observed, the more suspicious he became. 

This warranted further investigation. 

They had a well stocked bookshelf, some of them old and worn, some newer. _A Few Remarks on Basilisks and Cockatrices, Gnomish Prankings, Ballad of Vafthruthnir, Beliefs of Skellige: Druids, The Ladies of the Wood, Polymorphy, The Aen Seidhe and the Aen Elle, Healing Herbs of the Known World_ , and many more. The oldest, most worn books were titled in a script Geralt didn't recognize, and that further raised his suspicions. 

A door opened onto a small walled garden. Herbs and mushrooms of nearly every sort grew in pots, on trellises, on stacked shelves. Geralt quietly shut the door. He'd smelled the herbs the moment he entered the house. He hadn't realized the collection was so impressive.

Geralt settled into a chair where he could survey the room and keep an eye on Jaskier. Subtle carvings were tucked away in corners and on lintels, symbols of protection and warning. The chimes hanging over the windows hid warding spells within pretty, colorful designs. Druidic magic. Had they sensed the curse on Jaskier?

An unsettling thought. There were only so many magic users he trusted to examine Jaskier in search of a cure, because in the wrong magical hands, cursed blood and body parts made for powerful recipe components. What were druids doing so far away from their forest? And living a lifestyle so far removed from the harmony with nature the druids preached?

Then he saw the dolls. He moved closer, and, standing, was tall enough to see tucked away on the top shelf, peeking out from jars of dried herbs and preserved foods, poppets of many shapes and sizes. Twists of grasses, scraps of cloth, sticks, string, some of them outwardly blank, some highly decorated. They weren't evil of themselves, but the potential for abuse existed. 

"We were druids. When we were young, Witcher."

"Hmm." Geralt had always found it better to let others fill in the space. He learned far more. 

"Marek was wild and flirted with the outside world." She chuckled. "And I was usually right beside him. But then he went too far, and the council declared him banished. I stayed beside him. We did well for ourselves. Raised five children and three grandchildren, and took in many strays—drink the tea, Jaskier dear. The poppets are for healing."

"Why didn't you speak up, sooner?"

"I’m aware witchers and mages aren’t on the best of footing since the massacre of Kaer Morhen. What’s to stop you from thinking we lure in poor souls in the hope of harvesting body parts for their cursed essence?"

"Are you?"

"Touch them, sense for yourself."

Geralt grinned as Lena turned back to fuss over Jaskier. Some mother-henning would do him good. Geralt reached for the poppets, searched for evil with his witcher senses, but found none. The currents of magic around the dolls projected peace and healing.

"Go on, search the rest of the house and grounds too, if you want. You'll find this is a safe place for"—she cut her eyes over to Jaskier—"troubled souls to rest."

Geralt searched the house and grounds. He wanted to believe her, but how often did a canny liar cover their deeds with one gleaming truth? He found a small, but functional farm. They had a creamery, a small forge, a wood shop, ice house, a few animals, and a granary. A smokehouse, root cellar, vegetable garden, and small orchard supplemented their small grain fields. 

Marek joined him as Geralt headed back inside. "Two of our boys live here. They've gone to Moën to sale crafts at the festival." He hurriedly added, "Lena obviously told you what we are, so now you know how we manage such a farm at our age." He stopped Geralt with a hand on his arm. "He will be safe here. I know you've been worrying what to do with him."

Geralt shook his head. "We’re going to Oxenfurt to find the one who cursed him and force them to tell us how it may be broken."

"I can't stop a Witcher. You know that. Don't forget in the quest for a cure what the journey is costing."

Geralt brooded through supper. Jaskier picked at his food, only taking a bite when reminded to eat. 

"Have you tried spelling?" Lena had begun questioning as soon as they were all at the table. 

"Doesn't work."

"Drawing?"

"Looks broken when he finishes."

She patted Jaskier's arm. "Have you tried pointing to letters?"

Jaskier nodded. He hadn't smiled since waking up. The conversation flowed around him, and unless someone gave him a directive to pay attention, he didn't contribute. Geralt wondered if Jaskier would be able to travel at all. Was his spirit lost? Had learning he'd put himself through the ordeal for so little crushed him? Or was this a step in recovery like the confusion and unresponsiveness had been?

"A game of gwent before bed, Geralt?" Marek asked

"What sort of wager?"

"I have a long list of chores that need done."

"And if I win?"

"That'll never happen, but I have coin and travel supplies to offer."

"Sounds fair."

Lena and Jaskier moved to a padded bench near the bookshelf. She took a book from the shelf and began paging through it, talking to Jaskier. Geralt lost the first round of gwent and owed Marek mucking out his chicken house. 

Before the second round began, Lena said, "Geralt, dear, you need to come take a look at this."

Jaskier flipped the book to a page and tapped it. A picture of a turtle sat opposite an ornate letter T. Jaskier moved through the pages, his brows drawn together in concentration. He stopped on a hare, then an apple. Next he stopped on an owl, blinked his eyes several times and shook his head. He closed the book and rubbed the bridge of his nose. After several deep breaths, he opened it and opened it to musical notes. He tapped it and nodded. 

Geralt didn't miss the way Jaskier’s hand shook as he began flipping pages, or the way he swallowed. He stopped on a key and tapped it. 

"Thank you?" Geralt asked.

Jaskier nodded, waved at the whole setting, and settled on staring at Geralt, before nodding again. 

"We'll fix this, Jaskier."

Jaskier grew even more pale as he groaned and clutched his stomach. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. 

"Fighting the curse is hard," Lena said. "Why don’t you go on up to rest."

Jaskier nodded and stood up. He looked ill, but braced on the walls to make it up the stairs toward the guest room. 

When the door to the guest room closed, Geralt looked seriously at the elderly druids. "I owe you a debt. One that cannot be paid by chopping wood and cleaning a chicken house. What is your price?"

"We take in those in need to honor our druid origins," Marek said. "It's a poor substitute to make up for my youth."

"I don't like having debts over me."

"We charge five orens a night for lodgers," Lena said. 

"We've done much more than simply lodge."

They looked at each other before Marek spoke. "If you wish to owe us so dearly, agree to deal with the next monster that harasses us, with the understanding that you are not for hire against humans or lesser evils."

It was better than risking the Law of Surprise. "Agreed."

With that cleared, Geralt excused himself and followed Jaskier to the guest room. He was curled up on his side. He sat up and smiled at Geralt. The expression was strained, not reaching his eyes, but Geralt appreciated the effort. 

"We'll stay here a few days until you're up to travel."

Jaskier wrung his hands and looked away for a moment before he nodded. He lay back down, scooted to the wall. Geralt felt like he should say more, but instead he lay down beside Jaskier and tried to sleep.


	10. I Understand You

###  **Chapter Ten: I Understand You**

Each day Jaskier required less prompting to complete tasks. Simple things like dressing himself stopped causing confusion. He slept more than remained awake at first, but while awake he followed Lena to the garden, helped her preserve the herbs, and the list of chores he did independently grew. Geralt marveled at the improvement while he worried that through it all, Jaskier hadn't become more communicative. He didn't initiate. He shrugged in response to questions and didn't make eye contact. He did whatever someone told him to without argument and the fear that the Jaskier he'd known was gone tightened around Geralt's heart.

The third night, Jaskier tensed when Geralt crawled into bed, and huddled against the wall, keeping space between them. After that, Geralt slept in the barn. He did numerous chores and listened to more tales from Marek's youth. 

The next morning, Geralt opened the door to the house with too much force, startling the cat. It skidded across the floor, knocking over an empty pot amid shouts and clatters. Jaskier, halfway down the stairs, froze at the commotion, yelped, and scrambled back up the steps. Geralt found him huddled in the corner at the end of the hall. Tears spilled down Jaskier’s cheeks. He scrubbed his arm over his face and stood up, his back pressed to the wall. Geralt took a step closer and Jaskier's heart rate shot up, but he chuckled and shrugged. 

If Jaskier wanted to pretend nothing happened Geralt wouldn't take that from him, so he grunted and left. Lena looked at Geralt with concern as he stomped through the kitchen. "Startled. I've got chores."

Geralt tried not to think about the dangers he encountered on the road. If Jaskier startled and reacted like that in the face of real danger…

A week after Jaskier woke up, Geralt lay in the stall listening to the horses snore. He had to move on soon. He'd sworn to Jaskier that he would find out how to break this curse. No amount of damage the bard did to himself relieved Geralt of that pledge. One more day to say his goodbyes to the farmers, and he would set out for Oxenfurt with or without Jaskier. He didn't know what to do about Jaskier. The way he startled at the unexpected noise, and his continued need for supervision...how could he manage to keep Jaskier safe on the path? The image of him in Zhoda bullied its way to the forefront of Geralt's mind. He would never abandon him to that fate, but the way he tensed at Geralt's approach, it was evident Jaskier could barely stand to be in his presence. They couldn’t travel together like that. 

After breakfast the next morning, Geralt mucked out the chicken house a second time. After he finished, he took the tools to the barn. His medallion hummed and he heard Jaskier talking to Roach. It happened more often lately. Geralt ignored Jaskier's words; they were typical for the curse—insults, threats, curses—it was the tone that mattered. He expected to hear anger, fear, frustration, but Jaskier's voice was broken, choked. When Geralt looked in, Jaskier leaned on Roach, his forehead pressed to her neck. He brushed her with one hand, the movements slow and haphazard. 

Whatever else he was seeing, Roach's nostrils were flaring, her ears were laid flat, and she stamped a foot. Jaskier was getting on her nerves and she wouldn't stand for it much longer. Geralt walked a few feet away and stomped his way back to the barn door. Jaskier didn't want to be seen crying, and Geralt would give him that. The stall door opened and closed, and Jaskier stood facing him with shoulders squared and spine straight 

"Jaskier?" Geralt took a step forward, and Jaskier took a step away. 

Jaskier patted his chest and then pointed down. 

Geralt frowned. His fears about Jaskier rejecting his company crowded his mind. "Is this about tomorrow?" 

A nod. Jaskier repeated his motion, patting his chest and pointing down. 

"You want to stay here?" Geralt asked. The look on Jaskier's face told him he'd guessed right. He should respect that Jaskier told him what he wanted, that he took a stand and made his mind known. Instead, he pushed back. "And what? You're giving up? Going to be a farmer for the rest of your days? We'll find the solution in Oxenfurt." 

Jaskier shook his head, no, and took another step away. 

"What are you really planning? Are you going to run away?"

Jaskier shook his head. Pointed at Geralt, then Roach, and mimicked drawing a sword. Then he pointed to himself and shook his head, no. 

"You don't want to be in danger, but I have to keep walking the path. I'll keep you safe." Geralt stepped forward, wanting to bridge the distance between them, and Jaskier nearly tripped over himself in an attempt to keep away. The fear in Jaskier's eyes was plain to see. The bard looked battered, the bruises from his ordeal with the potion stood out plainly on his wrists and arms. "Or you mean it's me you don't want to be around. I crossed a line, hurt you." Geralt stepped back, to demonstrate he understood. "I'll go. I'll keep working to solve this. And you won't need to see me again."

Jaskier drew in a deep breath and approached. Geralt stood rooted to the spot, unsure what Jaskier intended. He realized he stood between Jaskier and the exit, and the last thing he wanted was to inadvertently trap Jaskier in the barn. He moved to step aside, but Jaskier stepped closer and patted Geralt's chest, over his heart. And then he bridged the gap entirely and wrapped his arms around Geralt's shoulders.

Geralt slowly brought his own arms up, placed his palms flat on Jaskier's back. After a minute the contact stopped feeling awkward and he relaxed into it. "If you can stomach it, I want you to come with me."

Jaskier nodded. 

His heart still beat too fast, and the sour odor of fear fouled the air. "We'll win this battle."

Jaskier sniffed and stepped away. He picked the brush back up and continued with his chores as if the moment had never happened. Jaskier brushed Marek's grey horse next, smiling at it and speaking softly setting off Geralt's medallion. 

The barn had been mucked out. Jaskier was no farmhand, but he was decent with horses. He kept glancing over at Geralt as he worked. Each time, he fixed his faltering smile. Geralt left him to it.

At lunch, Lena leaned over to Geralt and said, "Do you know who did this to him?"

Geralt frowned at her. 

"A rival bard, I believe."

She turned on Jaskier. "A bard?" Her eyebrows raised. "'Toss a coin to your witcher'. You're that bard? We love your work!"

Jaskier blushed. 

"You'll be heading to Oxenfurt, then."

"Tomorrow if Jaskier is able to travel."

Jaskier smiled at them, lips thin and tight. Geralt was beginning to hate that smile. It was a mask and an ill-fitting one.

Lena continued, ignoring their silent conversation. "I was quite a talent in my day. I can make you something. A hex. Yes, I can think of a few interesting variations that will be quite well deserved for the villain who did this."

After the days they'd just lived through, Geralt well understood the impulse. But he knew better than to play with forces such as these. "Revenge never comes without a price."

Her gaze drifted over to Jaskier, eating his meal. Tension rolled off him. "Forgive me, I know you don't want more trouble, dear."

Jaskier nodded, and his shoulders relaxed. 

"If you ever change your mind though…"

As soon as everyone had finished eating, Jaskier sprang up and gathered the dishes to wash. He dutifully followed Lena out to the gardens with a basket. Geralt spotted him throughout the afternoon doing chores, the smiling mask reappearing every time he thought Geralt was looking. 

Late in the evening, nearing dusk, Geralt spotted Jaskier carrying rocks from the pasture to the fence. His expression was blank. He staggered as he returned to the field, nearly tripping over his own feet, but he took another rock and repeated the journey. 

"Jaskier."

He froze, shoulders tense, but when he turned around, that damned smile was back in place.

"What are you doing?"

He held up the rock and waved it toward the fence. 

"You're going to be too sore to travel tomorrow."

The smile faltered, but Jaskier shook his head and locked it in place.

"The rocks will be here tomorrow. Come inside."

He nodded and deposited the rock on the pile. Inside, Jaskier sat at the table, keeping his hands out of sight, and the smile plastered on his face. When he ate, his movements were stiff and clumsy. 

Geralt collected the dishes when Jaskier reached for them. 

Lena pulled Jaskier's hands into the table and tutted at him. "I know what you were doing, and I gave you gloves for a reason. Callouses take time. Rushing only hurts. Wait here."

She left, and Geralt turned on Jaskier. The palms of his hands were reddened. He'd have blisters tomorrow. "Did they force you to do all that?"

Jaskier shook his head, the mask slipping for a moment. 

"Why did you do it then?"

Jaskier shrugged, but instead of turning away as he had been doing to end their interactions, he touched his fingertips and shook his head. He looked at Geralt like that should mean something.

"I don't understand."

Jaskier sighed and brushed the back of his fingers over Geralt's cheek before shrugging.

"Make me understand. Please."

"This will help," Lena said, shoving a small stone into Geralt's hand. A message was carved on it.

_Dandelion the mute. I understand you. I want work._

"Dandelion?"

Lena smeared a salve over Jaskier's palms. "He insisted on that name."

Jaskier nodded.

"So you plan to look for labor jobs when we travel?"

Jaskier's smile broadened, felt real for an instant before it faltered and he looked away.

Geralt retreated. The light that drew Geralt to him like a moth to a flame...how could it exist if Jaskier gave up? He'd thought he lost Jaskier entirely when he was silent and malleable, that his spirit died, that destiny tried to tell him that by stopping him in that fucking meadow. But Jaskier began speaking, and he hoped. He hoped _his_ Jaskier survived. He wanted his Jaskier back, not Dandelion the mute, a man who'd given up hope. 

Anger churned in his gut, and he ran. He stopped beside a stream in the woods and collapsed to his knees. He wanted _his_ Jaskier back, not a stranger wearing his face. He roared to the sky, expelling the anger. It left him hollow and tired. Jaskier deserved better than someone stuck in the past. The curse remained the key. Go to Oxenfurt, find a way to break it, and the light would come back.

Geralt went to the barn to check over Roach's saddle and tack. It had been cleaned. A piece of paper tucked into the bottom of a saddlebag. Jaskier had traced pictures from the book onto the paper. The images spelled 'Sorry,' and were followed by broken, choppy lines familiar from Jaskier's prior attempts to draw. The image of a lute signed the note.

Geralt stuffed the note back into the bag. He found Jaskier in the guest room. He'd already fallen asleep pretended he had. Geralt fumed, but let Jaskier sleep.


	11. Save Me

###  **Chapter Eleven: Save Me**

The next morning, Jaskier motioned that he was going out to the privy and didn't return. Geralt found him carrying the last of the rocks. He smiled, and Geralt began to wonder if anything remained behind the maddening false cheer. 

They set off near noon. Jaskier walked alongside Geralt without complaint. He smiled at the travelers they encountered on the road. When they reached Murky Waters in the evening, Jaskier waved at Geralt and headed toward the market. Geralt resisted the urge to follow. He took Roach to the stable and visited the innkeeper. The man took one look at Geralt's scowl and reminded Geralt that he'd paid for a room they hadn't used. 

Jaskier returned as darkness fell. He smelled of sweat and deeply turned earth. A faint whiff of decay clung to him. He grinned at Geralt and held up a few coins.

"You dug graves?"

He nodded and thrust the hand holding the coins closer to Geralt. 

Geralt folded Jaskier's fingers over the coins. "You don't need to do this. I'll take care of you until we find a solution."

Jaskier shook his head, the smile falling away. His shoulders hunched, and he looked away. Geralt reached for him. He didn't mean to— 

Jaskier straightened, and a smile was back. It held no joy. 

"Jaskier, I'm—"

He waved his hand, cutting Geralt off. The smile conflicted with the way Jaskier's heart beat too fast, but he stepped closer and patted Geralt's chest. It had become their shorthand for conciliatory or comfort. Geralt sighed. Before he found a response, Jaskier spun away out of the room. 

He returned with two plates of food. It must have cost most of his coin, but his smile was real as he handed Geralt one of them. Geralt didn't dare comment. 

They left Murky Waters early the next morning and overtook a caravan of travelers breaking camp. The leader of the group spied Geralt's dual swords and rushed over. 

"A witcher!"

Geralt braced for the oncoming condemnation. "Yeah."

"I am Witold Badura. I am taking my entire year's stocks of the finest quality silk to the textile guild in Novigrad and I've heard horror stories about bandits not far from the Pontar."

"You don't have guards?" Geralt expected disgust, Witold's open expression was a relief.

"Of course I do, but this is a year's work!"

"I might be willing to hire on, but only as far as Oxenfurt."

"Accepted. The route is safer north of the Pontar."

Jaskier wandered off as they haggled over the price. Geralt sensed Jaskier drift away. He forced himself to keep his focus on Witold Badura. Jaskier didn't need him hovering. He allowed himself a moment to spot Jaskier in the crowd as the caravan set off. He stood in a group of men laughing. Geralt smiled. He hadn't seen Jaskier laugh in weeks.

He rode Roach, scouting ahead, around, and behind the caravan throughout the morning before settling in alongside it in the afternoon, confident that no bandits were in the area. Jaskier walked at the back of the procession among the same group of men. They wore rough clothes and had the ropy muscles of lifelong laborers. One of them wore a wooden frame on his back half-filled with sticks. As Geralt watched, the group stopped, and they shifted the frame onto Jaskier. 

Geralt frowned. Jaskier hunched under the weight, not carrying the load the most efficient way. He'd be miserable later. To interfere or not warred within Geralt, but the oldest of the group adjusted Jaskier's stance. The rest laughed, and the leader ruffled Jaskier's hair. Geralt stopped staring. Jaskier seemed intent on working with the limited capacity he possessed. 

Had he given up? Music meant so much to the bard. He sang, hummed, strummed, wrote constantly. The music filled him mind and soul. How could he give up? Geralt shook his head. He couldn't accept that. He wouldn't. Jaskier was tired, rattled from the ordeal. Geralt must shoulder the load, keep hope alive for both of them until he found a way to break the curse.

He'd get his friend back.

When the caravan set up camp, Jaskier worked with the men making preparations, lighting the fires, cooking the meal, setting up the tents. He got in the way, but the man who'd corrected him earlier kept him close and showed him the right way to do the work. Jaskier waved his hands in elaborate gestures and the men laughed with him. Geralt focused his senses on the men. He didn't find the expected mockery in their tones or body language. They...liked Jaskier, and when the work was complete, they sent him back to Geralt with two plates of food.

Geralt pretended he'd been focused on his own job of protecting the caravan. "Jaskier. You don't have to do this."

Jaskier scowled at him for a moment, before pulling the false smile back into place. He made a show of yawning and rubbing his eyes before reaching for his bedroll. 

"Some Oxenfurt students joined the caravan earlier today."

Jaskier looked up from spreading his blankets. After a long moment, he shrugged, the false smile growing broader, more of a lie.

"Wouldn't you like to walk with them tomorrow?"

Jaskier snorted. He patted his whiskered mouth and shook his head. Sadness. That tang rolling off him now was sadness, but he kept smiling and patted Geralt's chest. 

"You don't have to build a new life, Jaskier. We'll break this curse. You can go back to your real life."

Jaskier shook his head and lay down, facing away from Geralt. 

Loss settled into Geralt's gut like a stone. His friend, with his music and chatter and joy for life, was slipping through his fingers like dry sand and he didn't know what to do.

Jaskier rolled over and patted the bedroll beside him with a tentative, but real, smile. Geralt lay down and let Jaskier prod him into rolling over, facing away. Jaskier snaked one arm under Geralt's head and wrapped the other around his chest. 

"Shh-shh-shh," Jaskier murmured and patted Geralt's chest. 

Geralt rested his hand on Jaskier's arm. "Goodnight." 

Jaskier soon became lax behind him, his breathing and heart slowing in sleep. Geralt lay awake. He meant to comfort Jaskier. _He_ was the one cursed and in need of encouragement. Yet Jaskier had settled the disquiet in him instead. 

Jaskier avoided the Oxenfurt students. He continued walking with the laborers and to smile. He made fewer mistakes in helping set up camp. Geralt didn't risk telling him he shouldn't tonight and was rewarded with Jaskier gesturing so rapidly and with so much excitement that he followed not a quarter of what the bard tried to tell him. That didn't dissuade Jaskier anymore than the way he'd only paid attention to a fraction of his verbal chatter on an average night prior to the curse. 

Jaskier chuckled and rested his head on Geralt's shoulder. He fell asleep sitting up. Geralt eased him over into the bedrolls. Jaskier wasn't weak. He walked after Roach most of the day, every day while they were on the path. He sang and entertained, playing the lute long into the night at festivals and walked the next day. He wasn't some wilting flower, but his strength wasn't honed toward carrying heavy loads and doing hard labor. 

Geralt hated that if he failed, hard labor would be the only sort of work left to Jaskier. He deserved better than being worn out and used up before he turned forty. The thought of seeing his only friend old before his time, watching him wither away almost before his very eyes set a blaze burning within Geralt. He held Jaskier this time, and in his dreams, he held a man young in years but aged by work and poverty. The once nimble hands roughened and knotted with arthritis. He held him and wished he could weep. 

He woke to Jaskier shaking his shoulder and didn't resist his head being pulled into Jaskier's lap or the fingers carding through his hair until Jaskier swayed and yawned. 

"Go back to sleep, Jaskier. I've got you."

Jaskier snorted and waved at their current position. 

"Thank you, but sleep now. You'll need it if you plan to work tomorrow."

Jaskier tilted his head and grinned. He lay down and Geralt knelt beside him, his thigh touching Jaskier's back to meditate instead of attempting more sleep. 

Geralt never thought he’d miss grumbling, but he did. Jaskier worked. He smiled. He was helpful, and he didn't complain. Even after the curse, there'd been heavy sighs, angry huffs, rude gestures, even sullen silences—Jaskier managed to make his annoyance clear. Now, he smiled, and he entertained and he helped, and...Geralt missed the grumbling. 

The caravan moved slowly, it would take two weeks to traverse what would have taken a week with Jaskier and him; three days by himself. They camped near Dorian, a week from Oxenfurt at the pace of the caravan. After helping set up camp, Jaskier found Geralt and led him to the road signs. He pointed to the sign labeled Gors Velen. 

"No. We're going to Oxenfurt."

Jaskier shook his head and pointed instead to Maribor.

"Jaskier, no."

Jaskier tapped his chest and pointed the direction they'd come from. 

"Oxenfurt is the key to ending your curse. Don't you care anymore?"

Jaskier took a step back and lowered his head. 

Geralt stepped close and wrapped his arms around him. Jaskier held himself stiff, the heat of anger radiating from him before he sighed and returned the hug. "I've got you, Jaskier. I know you're tired, but I will fix this. In Oxenfurt we'll find the answers."

Jaskier pulled away, the false smile, the mask that he hid behind, in place. He patted Geralt's chest as he walked back to camp. Rather than head to their bedrolls, Jaskier joined the laborers around their fire instead. He drank their mead, clapped along with the songs they sang, and didn’t look in Geralt’s direction. 

Geralt leaned on the road sign and tried not to watch Jaskier sidle up close to the older man who had taken him underwing. Tried not to glare as the man's arm snaked around Jaskier's shoulders or the way Jaskier nuzzled at his neck. The two disappeared behind the wagons. Geralt stalked away to patrol the area, afraid of what he might find if he went back to camp, to their bedrolls, whether that was Jaskier with his damn mask, Jaskier smelling of sex, or no Jaskier at all.

Geralt waited until the campfires burned low and the only sounds were snoring before he slunk to the bedrolls. Jaskier lay sprawled across both of them. He smelled of stale arousal and seed, his own and another's. Geralt pushed him until he rolled over. Jaskier was mad at him. Did he join the man out of spite or because it was the first chance he'd had in months? No fear underlay the scents. Jaskier hadn't been afraid of the man. It had never been his business who the bard bedded—except when an angry spouse made it his business. It remained none of his business. 

He smiled with a fondness he'd never let Jaskier see, at the way he'd race into the room late at night, frantic, saying, 'Geralt, save me!' The smile dropped away. He might never hear that again, and he'd done nothing but growl in the past. All the lost sleep and wasted coin on rooms they had to abandon would be worth hearing it again. 

Jaskier was 'quiet' with Geralt the rest of the trip. He was polite. He answered simple questions that Geralt asked. The happy gesture chatter in the evenings disappeared. Instead, when he abandoned the company of the laborers to come to his and Geralt's bedrolls, Jaskier stared into the fire or the dark or at the stars. His scent was muddled. Sad and happy. 

At White Bridge, Jaskier balked. One of the laborers—not the one Jaskier had been fucking—found Geralt, near the front of the caravan. "Master Witcher. You need to see to your friend," the man said. 

He handed Roach's reins to the man, and raced back across the bridge, not caring who he jostled. Jaskier stood to the side of the road, the older man gripping both shoulders, their faces close together. Geralt smelled salt and the sourness of fear from Jaskier.

"Dandelion, mate, you have to see the job through! You don't keep moving, and all that work for naught. What'd I tell you about trading yourself for naught?"

Geralt grabbed the man's arm and yanked him away from Jaskier. "Trading himself? Is that what you've been doing?"

The man laughed. "Oi, Dandelion, you didn't tell us your old man was the jealous type. Nah, mate, no trade buts equals in that regard. Better question is why's you forcing him to go where's he don't want to go?"

Jaskier pushed between them, glaring at both. He heaved a sigh, his shoulders rounding and head lowering. After a moment, he looked up and the fucking smile was on his face. He picked up the firewood basket and marched across the bridge without looking at either of them.

"Damn. Liked the boy. Funny, hard worker, and a good roll in the hay. S'pose he won't want nothing to do with neither of us for a while now. You insisting on him jumping ship at Oxenfurt?"

Geralt leaned in, menacing. "Yeah, I insist."

"Pity, he'd get triple the coin to see the job through to Novigrad."

"What job?"

"Porter. What you think he's been doing? Talked the owner into making it official and all. Your boy has a way about making people follow what he means, don't he?"

Geralt shoved the man away from him and stalked away. 

He didn't get a real expression from Jaskier the rest of the way to Oxenfurt. He expected a cold shoulder. Anger. Wheedling to not go to Oxenfurt, but nothing. Smiles that didn't make crinkles around his eyes and the loss of the happy tinge in his scent. The caravan camped outside Oxenfurt, and Jaskier spent the entire evening at the porters' fire flirting with the older man. Fuck. If he'd thought Jaskier would spend so much time with the guy, he should have at least learned his name. 

Jaskier didn't come to the bedrolls that night. 

In the morning, Witold Badura counted out Geralt's coin—the minimum agreed amount, since there'd been no sign of bandits—before turning to Jaskier. "Ah, Dandelion! Lew tells me you've earned every copper. Are you certain you won't continue on with us?"

Jaskier looked at Oxenfurt and shuddered, but he glanced at Geralt and nodded. Badura counted out Jaskier's paltry pay. 

Geralt didn't understand the pang of guilt that shot through him. Jaskier didn't want to go to Oxenfurt. He couldn't be more obvious if he shouted it in Geralt's ear, but it was for his own good.


	12. The Alchemy

###  **Chapter Twelve: The Alchemy**

They crossed the long bridge to the Western Gate of Oxenfurt, Jaskier's steps dragging. Geralt turned them away from the Academy toward the rougher neighborhood surrounding the harbor. As they passed the marketplace, Jaskier took the lute from Roach's saddle. He passed it to Geralt and nodded toward an instrument shop. It was the first communication Jaskier had initiated in days that went beyond basic needs. 

Geralt hoped this meant Jaskier was on his way to recovering his will to fight for his old life. The precious lute had been ignored far too long. "It needs repairs?"

Jaskier shook his head and tapped Geralt's coin purse. He mimicked handing the lute over and putting coin into the purse.

Geralt frowned. "You want me to sell your lute?"

Jaskier nodded.

"No."

Pain flashed across Jaskier's expression, but the mask covered it just as quickly. He shrugged and slung the lute across his back, heading toward the shop on his own. 

Geralt refused to let Jaskier sell Filavandrel's lute. "Give it to me."

Jaskier handed it over, following Geralt's lead without complaint. He frowned briefly when Geralt tied it back to the saddle, but settled into silently walking, the smile in place once again. 

Geralt checked them into a cheap inn and stabled Roach nearby. Jaskier put his bag, and the lute, in a neat pile in the corner of the small room. He flashed the introduction stone Lena gave him and gave Geralt a jaunty wave. The door thudded closed before Geralt formulated a denial. Geralt reminded himself how well Jaskier had managed with no more than the introduction Lena had etched onto the small smooth stone. _Dandelion the mute. I understand you. I want work._

He tried not to think too hard about Jaskier changing his name. It made sense. With the curse, he'd want to distance himself from his previous life. Belongings as secure as they'd ever be in a place of semi-ill repute, Geralt set out to break the curse. 

He went to The Alchemy first. The place was emptier than Geralt expected. No one spat at him as he made his way to the bar, and the barkeep approached without stinking of fear. "What will you have?"

"Beer. Wheat if you have it."

"That I do."

They exchanged coin for drink, and Geralt observed the place while he drank. A group of students huddled in the corner. They cast furtive glances over their shoulders as they talked. A lone man, dressed in faded and worn expensive robes slumped on the bar, drunk, far before noon. 

The barkeeper leaned near Geralt. "Got something on your mind?"

"Crowd seems lacking, even for the time of day."

The man stood up and crossed his arms. "Are you planning to nurse that drink all day?"

Geralt drained his mug and held it out for a refill. 

Another beer and another coin drew the man to lean against the bar. "Crowds are lousy."

"Any reason in particular?"

"Academy is unsettled. Lot of bad luck, strange happenings. Performances botched. Props disappearing. Accidents. A lot of them have left town."

"Hmm. Any idea when it started?"

"It's about time for lunch, don't you think?"

Geralt sighed and took out more coin. The barkeep served him a plate of a variety of dumplings—sauerkraut, mushroom, and pork—a sausage, and a crisp cucumber salad. Geralt ordered another beer. He hoped Jaskier had enough to eat today. He'd make sure the bard ate well tonight. 

"You've got a good cook."

The man smiled and said, "We had a suicide last fall. Marcin Blach. It didn't feel too unexpected. The man had fallen out of favor with everyone who'd hire him. Couldn't face obscurity, I suppose."

"Don't get many of those?"

"You'd think with all the inflated, brittle egos it'd be more common, but that was the first one in half a decade."

Geralt speared a dumpling on his knife. "And things have been unsettled since? More than loss like that would warrant?"

The man's expression grew distant as he considered. "Looking back, yes. I didn't notice at the time. Living it, the first I noticed was that drama at mid-winter."

"What happened there?"

"That bard, _Jaskier,_ had some kind of breakdown. Middle of a party, started throwing out threats. Hard to say what really happened. The stories vary. Some say he attacked the party and had to be driven out with force. Some say he disappeared into the night hounded by spirits." The man shook his head. "Too bad. I liked the boy. Probably dead now."

"And since then?"

"Demoralizing to lose two of our best talents in such a short span of time. Tension might explain it since then, but it feels more like an ill will roosted in the belfry."

"Anyone else in particular affected by this ill will?"

The barkeep nodded at the man slumped over the bar, "Raoul Trolki over there."

"Hmm."

"Accused of trying to sabotage Valdo Marx backstage. Didn't go his way after."

"He here a lot?"

The barkeep sighed. "They ran him out of the Academy. I let him do the washing up."

"He's not washing now."

"So I'm a philanthropist." He wheeled away to serve the students.

Geralt finished off the meal and approached Raoul Trolki. The man had his head pillowed on his arms on the bar. His hair was greasy, his skin was sallow, and his eyes heavily shadowed. It almost felt cruel to wake him. 

"Wake up."

Trolki startled and looked at Geralt bleary-eyed. "What d'you want."

"Heard you had a bad spring."

"Fuck off."

"I'm a witcher. Think there might be something magical going on."

His eyes traveled over Geralt, pausing on the swords, the hair, the eyes. He licked his lips. "Nothing for a witcher. Sabotage. I received a note asking me to meet the master of ceremonies in Valdo Marx's room. We'd had an altercation, and I assumed the man wanted to facilitate an agreement. Instead, I found a room ransacked, notes destroyed, vital preparations ruined. Before I could seek out aid, I was met by an uproar of players all believing I'd been seen wreaking that havoc. It was presumed I'd done it out of spite, and now—" He chuckled darkly. "—Now _I_ am persona non grata." 

"So this Marx could have set you up to end your altercation definitively."

Trolki huffed. "No. The bastard was on stage. Several people saw his room before he went on."

"What had you fought about?"

Trolki yawned and waved his hand dismissively. "Nothing of importance. Marx landed the role I wanted, and he was being an insufferable twat about it. I... _may_ have threatened to put a rash inducing irritant into his body powder. I never intended to carry through; it was spoken in anger. _He_ threatened to challenge me to a duel, the savage! But the threats and my unfortunate placement were more than enough to convict me in the eyes of my colleagues. And here you find me."

"Do you know of anyone else that has had unfortunate luck lately?"

He sniffed derisively. "None so great as mine, I assure you."

"Names," Geralt said, leaning into Trolki's space.

Trolki slid off his stool and staggered back. "I don't have any to give! I've been wallowing in my cups since shortly after mid-winter."

Geralt signaled the barkeep. "What does he drink?"

"These days? Cheapest wine I have. Practically vinegar."

"Give me something a few steps up. No more than the beer."

He handed Geralt a cup of white wine with a sharp, fruity odor. The exact vintage wasn't familiar to Geralt, but it was more than a step above vinegar. He sat on the stool next to the one Trolki had abandoned and pushed the cup of wine over.

Trolki approached, his heart beating too fast. He licked his lips before speaking. "I-is that for me?"

Geralt nodded. 

Trolki sat down and sniffed the wine before savoring a sip. His eyes closed with pleasure. "Cidaran white from the vineyards of Jaromir Bieda." He looked at Geralt sharply. "It isn't as expensive or _cultured_ as some Toussaint frippery, but I grew up in the nearby village." He took another sip. "Ah, this takes me home!"

"I understand that what happened to you was a deep personal tragedy."

"It most certainly was!"

Geralt resisted the urge to shake the man. "There were a few other tragedies before your downfall, weren't there?"

"Hmm, yes, no one expected poor Marcin to hurl himself from the tower. He _had_ been acting rather strange for _months_ before, though. He'd grown paranoid, saying he thought he was being followed, accusing simply everyone of touching his belongings when he wasn't in the room. I once saw him disposing of an entire basket of delicacies claiming they were rotten!"

"Were they?"

"I wouldn't know. He threw them into the river."

"Odd."

"Very. The stress of being on top had clearly gotten to the poor blighter."

"Had he had any altercations with Valdo Marx?"

Trolki snorted. " _Everyone_ has had an altercation—or many—with Valdo Marx. The man is insufferable and writes banal drivel. Yet, the matrons of the lordly estates are one and all in love with him _and_ his ridiculous songs. Every last one of them believes he is singing their praises in coded messages."

"Is he?"

"Have you _listened to_ his songs? If there are coded messages in them, only a rock troll could possibly be the intended recipient!" He gripped the edge of the bar so fiercely his knuckles turned white. "And! He lords it over the rest of us that he has showers of coin thrown at him in patronages for his subpar bleating."

"Raoul, if you don't slow down, I'm banning you for a week. You know the rules," the barkeep called. 

Trolki took several deep breaths and released the bar, shaking the tension out of his fingers. "Apologies, dear Oleg. Apologies."

Geralt waited until Trolki had taken another sip. "What happened at mid-winter?"

"Ahh, Jaskier! I liked the boy. He was a right pain in the arse as a student, but personable once I was no longer in charge of forcing the history of Cidaris into his stubborn skull."

"Mid-winter."

"Right. I wasn't at the party. It was a reasonably small affair. No more than fifty in attendance. Most of us had managed to secure spots at one of the fine estates or another north of the Pontar. Only those few had failed to gain the proper attention, you see."

"I need names."

"Hmm, well, I heard that Aniela Sabala organized the party. You won't find her in Oxenfurt until after the equinox, though. She has an appointment at the Vegelbud. Halina Bilas might have names. She often works for Aniela."

"That's all you've got?"

"All that isn't rumors, hearsay, and speculation. You wouldn't buy a disgraced, pathetic, drunk his favorite wine if you wanted rumors. That's what Oleg is for," he said nodding toward the barkeep. He took another sip of the wine. "You're Jaskier's witcher come to avenge his death, are you not?"

"He's not dead."

Trolki set the cup down and turned to face Geralt. "My mind is whirling with possibilities. He's not dead, yet here you sit plying me with wine for scraps of information. Injured perhaps? There are tales of injuries to the brain—"

Geralt stood so fast the barstool crashed. One of the students in the corner shrieked. Trolki shut his mouth with an audible snap of his teeth. Geralt stalked out. He'd find Halina Bilas some other way. 

By the time the sun began to set, Geralt had found nothing but spitting, cursing, and name-calling. He missed being able to sic Jaskier on a town to glean information from those who despised witchers. A dumpling shop owner grumbled at him but accepted his coin for a generous portion of dumplings and a jug of stout. 

Jaskier hadn't returned to the inn, and Geralt worried. Should he try to track Jaskier? Should he wait and show his trust? If Jaskier hadn't returned by full dark— 

Uneven footsteps, slight limp. Blood.


	13. Live Your Best Life

###  **Chapter Thirteen: Live Your Best Life**

Geralt yanked the door open. Jaskier swayed, pulled forward by his grip on the door handle. His face, beard, and clothes were muddy, though it looked like he had washed up. One of his pants legs was ripped near his knee. 

Jaskier straightened up and made a motion for Geralt to calm down and back up. 

Geralt let him pass. 

He sat at the rickety table and looked up at Geralt with a sigh. 

"Are you injured?"

A shrug and his stomach growled. 

"Did you get anything to eat since breakfast?"

A blush crept up his cheeks. He shook his head. 

"Your knee the only place you're bleeding?"

Jaskier nodded. 

"Eat. I got you dumplings and beer."

While Jaskier ate, Geralt examined him with his enhanced senses. Underneath the odor of sweat and blood, the tang of the Pontar and a whiff of spices told him Jaskier had been at the docks working near an importer. A hint of fear, and...there the scent of tobacco, two kinds and bitter sweat.

Jaskier turned to glare at him. He tapped his nose and shook his head. 

Geralt backed off and sat on the bed to mull it over. Evidently Jaskier didn't want him to interfere. Jaskier had given up on his life as a bard. Geralt could manage to carry that burden for him. Arguing about it only drove Jaskier away. Working with the porters, skipping out to the docks… If he was trying to build a new life as a mute, Jaskier _needed_ this work. He'd succeeded with the porters in the caravan. He'd been lucky they were decent men, but having a witcher glowering behind him hadn't hurt either. 

Geralt wanted _his_ Jaskier back, not the sad, shadow of Jaskier that the curse had defeated. Pummeling the men who'd hurt him would feel good. It would put the fear of Jaskier's bodyguard into the dock workers, but Jaskier needed pride in himself right now, not to be treated like some wilting flower in need of constant care and supervision. 

He cleared his throat. "Tomorrow—"

Jaskier's shoulders slumped and his ears blazed red.

"Tomorrow, I will show you some tactics. They won't be enough to stand against a large group, but they'll gain you distance enough to escape. Only two or three, you'll be able to force some respect out of them. If you want. "

Jaskier lit up, excitement and energy infusing his movements. He smiled, and oh how Geralt had missed seeing a genuine expression of happiness on his friend's face. 

"I met Raoul Trolki today."

Jaskier tilted his head and motioned Geralt to go on.

"He's been disgraced after a run-in with Valdo Marx."

Jaskier raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

"He said pretty much the same thing, that everyone has run-ins with Marx."

Jaskier nodded. 

Geralt sat beside Jaskier. "I learned a little more about what happened to you." He waited for Jaskier to respond, but he froze, so Geralt continued. "Mid-winter festival. A small party hosted by Aniela Sabala, who won't be back in town until the equinox. Halina Bilas is around somewhere though."

The mask settled over Jaskier's features. He smiled and patted Geralt's shoulder. 

"Will you help me find her?"

Jaskier shook his head and patted his coin purse.

"You don't have to do that kind of work, Jaskier. I have coin."

He nodded and leaned on Geralt's shoulder. This close, the sour scent of sadness filled Geralt's nose, completely at odds with the smile Jaskier wore and the soft way he patted Geralt's chest.   
The next morning, he showed Jaskier some tricks for getting free of holds and reminded him it was okay to fight dirty. 

“You’re not a fighter, you don't have to become one to defend yourself. Incapacitate and run, there’s no dishonor in surviving.” Geralt instructed. 

Jaskier merely rolled his eyes at the advice. Geralt wasn’t sure if that meant Jaskier agreed of if he thought Geralt was full of shit. Time would tell. 

Jaskier left for the docks and Geralt forced himself to not follow. He found Hilina Bilas before lunch. 

"Jaskier? I always liked him. Charming. Entertaining. Decent poet, but handy with the tunes that catch the common ear. Good looks and quite popular in the bedroom. All in all, the consummate bard. What more do you wish to know about him?"

Geralt refrained from rubbing at his forehead to soothe the headache forming. Why did everyone in this blasted place talk _so damned much?_ "What happened at the mid-winter festival?"

Halina's smile fell. "Why would you wish to know about such an unpleasant affair? Shouldn't we rather remember him pleasantly?"

"He's not dead!" Geralt said, barely holding back a growl. 

“Of course he is, why else would he have not returned?” She took a step back, and her heart rate spiked. Geralt stepped away from her and sat on the low garden wall. He pulled his shoulders in and tucked his hands between his knees. Halina took another step away from him to a chair and also sat. 

“Jaskier is not dead,” Geralt repeated in a calm tone.

"He was your friend? You cared for him?"

" _Is_ my friend, yes." 

"He was invited to Aniela's mid-winter party. He's a favorite at it. Everything seemed fine. I spoke with him that morning, asking which instrument he intended to bring. Nothing seemed amiss. He was in a jolly mood." Her words drifted into an uncomfortable silence. 

"What happened at the party, Hilina?"

She took a deep breath. "Jaskier walked in smiling like he was happy as could be. He stopped just inside the door, and said, 'I've rigged this place to burn, and you're all going with me.' We all froze waiting for the joke, but he only looked at us like we were behaving strangely." She wrung her hands together. "The rest of us were nervous, it was unsettling because I've never seen Jaskier say such things, but he just shuffled off as if it were nothing. It happened again with the next person he talked to. She tried to walk away, but he followed her. He was clearly agitated, and the things he was saying..." 

"Jaskier followed them. Frowning. Getting agitated. The things that he was saying…" She looked up at Geralt. "I don't wish to repeat them. Some of the men began to talk of restraining him, turning him over to the guard. They approached, and he began waving his hands in a placating motion. We almost believed him. I suggested we send for a healer, and Jaskier nodded." She stopped and shook her head. 

"So he was trying to make you understand?"

"We only wanted to help him, he was our friend. Jan grabbed Jaskier's arm and Jaskier seemed ready to calm down, but then everything got so chaotic. Someone shouted, 'He has a knife!' The next thing I knew, there was blood everywhere, on many people's hands and clothes. Jaskier staggered away from the group, blood on _his_ clothes and hands. No one knew who was hurt. There were screams and people running. Jaskier slipped away in the hubbub."

"What made you think he was dead?"

She shook her head. "I heard stories."

What stories?" Geralt tempered his impatience to maintain a non-threatening posture.

"After he left the party, Jaskier blazed a trail through the city, saying the most horrible things. The guard was called, but he escaped into the night. They were watching the bridges, so he must have gone into the swamps. No one has seen him since."

"Did no one think to try to help?"

"The guard searched. Everyone assumed he had a mental breakdown of some sort. Or took some bad fisstec… But he must have been the one bleeding. When all calmed down, no one else was injured. How could he have escaped through the water while bleeding and survive? We mourned his loss, especially so soon after Marcin's suicide, but what more could we have done?"

Geralt shook his head. "Who stabbed him?"

Hilina blinked at him as if asking that question was an epiphany. "I don't know. Perhaps the guard found out?"

"If they had arrested someone for it, the whole community would know?"

"Absolutely! Think of the controversy. The gossip would go on for years."

"Give me a list of the people who were near Jaskier before someone shouted."

She gave him the list. Geralt spent the rest of the day tracking people down. He found three of them in a group. Klemens Karp, Jacek Lach, and Jan Sciba. They were eager to tell their part in the 'mid-winter excitement.’

"We went to Jaskier, thinking we should take him to the guard, so they could lock him up for a healer to look at him safely," Klemens began. 

"I grabbed his arm—his right arm—and he and he seemed ready to come along without a fight," Jan added. This sounded like a well-rehearsed recitation. 

Jacek added, "I was in front of him, trying to talk to him, keep him, calm, you know, but then he suddenly tried to pull away from Jan and screamed. I saw a flash of a blade and he fell, I caught him, and my hand touched blood. A lot of blood."

Klemens picked up the tale. "Someone shouted, 'He has a knife!' A male voice. And the room erupted into chaos. People were screaming, running. Jaskier started cursing, threatening crazy things, saying he'd find us in our beds and relieve us of our manhoods. Then he pushed away from Jacek and ran into the throng of people."

"I thought Jasek had been stabbed. There was blood everywhere. By the time I realized Jacek was fine, Jaskier was nowhere to be seen," Jan said. 

The story was so dramatic, and they had obviously related the tale many times. Geralt feared he'd not get anything useful from it. None of them had the racing heart of a liar. They were telling the truth as they remembered it. "Klemens, you were standing a step removed from Jaskier?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't see the knife or the person who stabbed him?"

He paused and thought. "I remember movement. We were standing near a tapestry. It billowed, just before Jaskier screamed. The shout that he has a knife came from that direction, too."

"And no one saw anyone leave from that area?"

"All eyes were on Jaskier or set on running away."

Geralt found the hall where the party had happened. Not a trace of Jaskier remained. He checked the tapestries, but a passing maid informed him they'd had their yearly washing a few weeks ago. An alcove lay hidden behind one of the tapestries. I would have been an ideal place for someone with ill intent to lay in wait.

The one who'd hurt Jaskier had been smart, using cover, misdirection. The clues had all disappeared to daily life, but Geralt wasn't giving up. He couldn't do that to Jaskier. He spent the rest of the day asking about the unsettled incidents the barkeep mentioned. He got a lot of nothing for his efforts. As he trudged back toward the inn, a woman stepped from the shadows of an alley. 

He reacted to the motion before he fully recognized what she was doing, and the filth of the chamberpot she sloshed at him hit the cobbles where he had been standing. 

"Freak! Crawl back to the hole you came from!"

Geralt crossed the street in case she had anything left in the pot and continued his walk to the inn. The only commonality he'd found was both Jaskier and Trolki arguing with Valdo Marx. Once was an oddity, but twice was significant. He didn't realize he'd forgotten to get food until he opened the door to the room and smelled stew. 

Jaskier beamed at him from the bed, and Geralt sat at the table to eat with a sigh. He should be the one taking care of Jaskier not the other way around. But the stew smelled good, and he was hungry. "Thank you. You had a good day?" he asked between bites. 

Jaskier nodded and imitated one of the moves Geralt had shown him. 

"Good for you."

With obvious difficulty, Jaskier refrained from diving fully into his pantomime descriptions until Geralt finished eating. Geralt turned to face him, and Jaskier launched into rapid motions. He stopped abruptly and laughed, pointing at Geralt's face. Geralt hadn't heard him laugh in so long. 

"Try it slower?"

Jaskier nodded and went through the motions again, waiting for Geralt to speak back what he understood. They had been doing this for so many months now that it felt comfortable. Normal, almost. Jaskier told him about mending nets and carrying crates, that he'd met friendly people after he stood up for himself. He was really living this life, showing signs of truly settling in. When that realization struck him, Geralt's easy mood stripped away. He wasn't supposed to be getting comfortable with Jaskier like this. Complacent. Jaskier needed him to hold onto the flame. 

"Jaskier. I need to ask you about Valdo Marx."

He frowned and shook his head. 

"The only common thread in any of this is that both you and Trolki fought with Marx."

A single shoulder shrug and one hand lifted palm up clearly said, "So?"

"So what if he's the one behind all these problems and your curse?"

Of all the possible responses Geralt had imagined, Jaskier doubling over in laughter hadn’t crossed his mind. He clapped Geralt on the shoulder and shook his head. 

"You're-you're that sure he didn't do this?"

Jaskier nodded. He patted himself on the chest and walked two fingers like a person. 

Geralt pointed. "You and Marx?"

Another nod and Jaskier patted himself and pointed down, then leaned far out, walking his fingers and pointed down. 

"Marx was far away." Geralt shook his head. "That doesn't mean he didn’t curse you."

The look he received with the head tilt and one raised eyebrow was Jaskier saying, " _Really_?" He lifted his chemise and pointed at the scar. One count. Then pointed where he'd left the imaginary Valdo Marx, two count, and shook his head. 

Geralt dug in mulishly. "He could have hired someone to stab you."

He patted his mouth and shook his head. Then pointed back toward the spot he'd designated as Marx and motioned toward his eyes. 

Now Geralt understood. "He'd have wanted to see you suffer under the curse."

Jaskier nodded and wrapped his arm around Geralt's shoulders. He patted Geralt's chest, the motion had become so commonplace that even as disappointed as he was, as frustrated at the dead ends, it was comforting. He patted Jaskier's hand in acknowledgment. He'd have to investigate further, is all. He could do this. For Jaskier.


	14. Fucking Walls

###  **Chapter Fourteen: Fucking Walls**

Three days later, Geralt had to admit that no one in Oxenfurt could help. The only thing left was another mage. A powerful one. He had the misfortune of knowing several. He sorted through them, trying to find the one least likely to try to murder or vivisect him on sight. Stregobor? Thinking about the evil bastard made Geralt's blood boil, but ultimately, he'd gotten what he wanted from Geralt. 

His stomach churned at the thought of contacting the mage, but he purchased paper and a tiny vial of ink with his dwindling stock of coins and returned to the inn. He sat at the table, staring at the paper while sorting through possible phrases. Stregobor's talk of what he'd done to the Black Sun princesses echoed through his mind. Images of Renfri alive...and of her death. The memory of her blood on his hands. 

Geralt stood up and paced. Contacting Stregobor was a bad idea. What demands would the mage make in exchange for lifting the curse? Geralt would willingly pay any cost if it meant restoring Jaskier to his former self. He picked up the pen and began writing. 

_Most honorable Stregobor,  
I plead for your aide in a most delicate matter. I offer anything of my own as payment._

He despised the thought of asking a mage for anything. What they had done to him and the other boys—his skin crawled as it had those days long past—waiting for the poison again and again as he suffered further experiments with mutations. He couldn't write the letter in this state of mind. The sun was setting outside, and Jaskier would be returning soon. He'd promised to buy their supper, so he carefully concealed the paper and ink and went in search of a vendor stall that would serve him. 

His stomach turned at the thought of eating. Too many memories played through his mind to allow him that comfort. He purchased the least nauseating option he could find for Jaskier and walked back to the inn quickly. The usual gauntlet of curses and spitting was even less tolerable than normal today. He ascended the stairs, grateful to be returning to the one place that represented some safety in this awful town—and that only because he knew Jaskier would be waiting for him. 

The pounding steps of agitated pacing reached him at the landing. 

He rushed to the door and threw it open. Jaskier rounded on him, the paper clutched in one hand and fury in his expression. 

Geralt froze. "I didn't mean for you to see that."

Jaskier threw both hands up in the air, a wordless shout of outrage escaping him. Then he took a step back, ran his free hand over his face, and opened and closed his mouth several more times. He waved the paper at Geralt—his hands shaking—then pointed to the chair. 

Geralt closed the door, put the food on the table, and sat, numb in the face of Jaskier's anger. 

Jaskier pointed to Geralt's written offer of anything as payment and then ripped the paper. Geralt snatched at it, but Jaskier danced back, ripping it again. 

"That's our last chance, Jaskier!" His voice shook. As if it hadn't been hard enough to face beginning the letter the first time. He crashed back into the chair and dropped his head into his hands. "All you've done is waste the cost of replacement materials. I'll buy more tomorrow."

The chair creaked dangerously as Jaskier slammed into him. He clung to Geralt, his face pressed to Geralt's neck, shaking his head. Geralt ignored the groaning chair and rubbed Jaskier's back. He pulled away to look Geralt in the eye. 

He pointed to Geralt's eyes and made a scooping motion. Hacking motions over Geralt's torso and pulling motions brought back the images of the nightmares he'd suffered for months after his encounter with a mage and their graphic description of how they would 'study' him.

"I don't care. It would be worth it. Anything would be."

Jaskier shook his head again and made the same motions over his own body. 

"No. I wouldn't let him." But he knew how hollow that promise was even before Jaskier raised a skeptical eyebrow at him. "It's the last chance," he said miserably. 

Jaskier pulled him into a hug and held him until they got sore from sitting on the uncomfortable chair. Jaskier ate quickly, and crawled into bed, patting the space beside him. Geralt didn't protest Jaskier nudging him to face away and wrapping around his back. 

The next morning, Jaskier pointed to Geralt's swords and his coin purse before heading toward the docks. Geralt couldn't stand sitting in the room alone, and he wasn't ready yet to search out a contract. It would be the final step back into their normal life. A final capitulation. He wasn't ready to face any of this sober. He took several bottles of white gull from his pack, and bought all the cheap, strong liquor he could afford from the innkeeper. The white gull and the liquor mixed together ensured that even his mutated metabolism would suffer the effects. 

It was a coward's course to get drunk, but they'd established last night that he didn't have the strength to face the one thing that might be a chance… No. He was getting drunk because he couldn't face that he'd been clinging to hope when there was none. The first bottle of liquor went down rough. Burning his throat, sitting hot in his empty stomach. 

He wandered until he found a bench in a shaded courtyard and sat. Oxenfurt was a dead end. Nothing was left. 

He drank some more.

He couldn't fix this. 

He rested his head on the wall behind him. He couldn't break this curse. _'My only value is my voice, and without it, I'm nothing.'_ Jaskier's words in that clearing before the poison took his mind haunted Geralt until he chased it away with the mix of white gull and rotgut. 

The sun dipped into the western horizon. Where had the day gone?

Geralt stood up and squared his shoulders. He tripped over bottles and landed flat on his stomach. He had to-to get back to the inn. He climbed to his feet, holding onto the wall for support. The wall disappeared on him and he tumbled into the street. Loud. Their inn was past all the loud people, right?

He staggered through the noise and colors. A mistake. Things crashed around him as he sprawled on the ground. He crawled to his feet. A group of men blocked his way, and Geralt didn't register the threat until he'd been hurled against a wall. He curled around his stomach and protected his head and didn't care enough to fight back. At the lack of sport, they lost interest after only a few blows. 

Geralt lay there, dazed. He didn't know how to find the inn, and outside this alcove, the noise echoed. Might as well stay here. The ground didn't throw him around like the walls seemed to do.

He closed his eyes. 

Insistent shaking disturbed him. He batted the hand away from his shoulder, but it returned even more insistently. He dragged his eyelids open. Jaskier's face swam in front of him. He looked worried. 

"You all right?" Geralt asked.

Jaskier nodded. He pulled on Geralt's arm, and Geralt rolled to his feet. Only to stagger into the wall. _Fucking walls_. With an exasperated humph, Jaskier slid under his arm and supported him. They made it back to the inn, and up the stairs. Jaskier dumped him into the bed and pulled off his boots.

Geralt blinked and a warm cloth ran over his face. He blinked again and woke to the afternoon sun streaming in the open window. He sat up and groaned. Even witcher mutations couldn't handle that much white gull without a lingering hangover. He smelled like he'd rolled in the gutter several times over and his breath tasted like he'd eaten shit. He cleaned himself up in the little basin of water and sat on the bed. 

He'd delivered news of loved ones' gruesome deaths hundreds of times. He'd informed women they were widows and men they were widowers. He'd told parents monsters had torn their child to pieces and children they were orphans. Geralt had notified people of every form of bereavement he'd imagined until now. Telling his friend he could never speak again, never make music, never share the boundless creativity bubbling inside him… he'd never imagined this pain. 

He delivered bad news, and he left, never having to deal with the pain he left in his wake. He didn't want to leave Jaskier. He’d _learn_ to deal with it, and he couldn't put this off any longer. He settled into meditation to wait for Jaskier to return. 

Jaskier's footsteps outside the room pulled him from meditation. He stood as Jaskier opened the door. He smiled when he saw Geralt and sat two plates on the small table. Jaskier had done well for himself today. He was happy.

Geralt bowed his head. 

Jaskier patted his arm. When he couldn't bring himself to speak, Jaskier tugged him over to the bed and sat him down. He crouched in front of Geralt and cupped Geralt's cheek with his hand. 

Geralt heaved a deep breath. "I can't break this curse. This was all a dead end."

Jaskier nodded. 

"You'll be like this the rest of your life." Geralt's chest ached with the admission. 

Jaskier looked toward the floor for a moment and sighed. He stood up, and Geralt expected anger. Tears. Some kind of emotion. Instead, Jaskier crawled onto the bed, lay down, and pulled Geralt down beside him. He tugged Geralt's head to his chest and pressed his chin to the top. 

"I don't understand."

Jaskier huffed and rubbed Geralt's back. 

"I failed you."

He squeezed harder and one hand moved to brush through Geralt's hair. 

Geralt pushed away, so he could see Jaskier's face. "You knew. Have known."

Jaskier nodded. 

"That's why you didn't want to come to Oxenfurt."

He shook his head and patted Geralt's chest.

Geralt sat up, facing Jaskier. "You didn't want to come, but you did anyway. For me."

Jaskier mirrored his position and nodded.

"You can take care of yourself now," Geralt said waving at the food. 

He beamed with pride and nodded.

"You didn't want to hurt me."

Jaskier nodded. He held his hands out, palm up. He'd lost the playing callouses from his fingertips and gained new ones across his palm. 

Geralt grasped Jaskier's hands and rubbed his thumbs across the callouses. "Can you be happy like this?"

He shook Geralt's hands off and mimed hanging, then shook his head. Pointed at the lute in the corner and shook his head. Then raised his palms and the smiling mask settled into place.

"You-you won't die, but you can't be a bard anymore, so you'll do this kind of hard work?"

Jaskier nodded. 

Geralt collapsed against Jaskier's shoulder. "I don't want you to have to make that choice," he murmured.

Jaskier patted Geralt's chest, then hugged him. 

"But you already made it, didn’t you?"

Jaskier nodded against his chest. 

"I'm sorry." That ache in his chest, blossomed, overwhelming him until tears threatened to spill over. He hadn't shed tears since he was a child; thought himself incapable, but the massive ball of emotion needed a path out of him. Jaskier pulled him in again and Geralt let him. He didn't deserve this comfort, especially from Jaskier, but he couldn't bring himself to push it away for a long time. 

When the lump in his throat allowed him to speak, he sat up and asked the question he should have asked before insisting they go to Oxenfurt. "Where do you want to go now?"

Jaskier dug in his pocket and held out the etched stone. He squeezed Geralt's hand, then mimed shivering and pointed to the stone. 

"You want to travel the path with me and spend the winter with the druids."

Jaskier nodded, but he seemed unsure, afraid even, of Geralt's answer.

"You must be crazy." Jaskier jerked back, hurt in his expression. Geralt continued, "You must be crazy if you think I'd abandon you. You're welcome to travel with me, cursed or no."

Jaskier lunged into him, wrapping his arms around Geralt's middle tight enough to be uncomfortable. His shoulders shook and his breath hitched. 

The implication hurt. "Did you truly think I would?"

Jaskier shook his head. 

"What's wrong then?"

Jaskier didn't answer. Geralt rubbed his back until his breathing settled and he regained control. Jaskier sat up, ducking his head, his cheeks blushing red. He rubbed the back of his head and shot Geralt a smile that was too much teeth. He took a deep breath and patted the pillow. 

Geralt lay down beside him, and Jaskier felt more relaxed beside him than he had in weeks. Neither pushed the other about the emotional outburst. Jaskier's life had been stolen. Everything he'd worked for, hoped for, planned for his future, the curse ripped away. He'd chosen to continue in the only life left available to him. He'd chosen to smile and care for Geralt's feelings above his own, but he'd never allowed himself to mourn the loss. How could he while worried about—Geralt tightened his embrace. 

"Thank you, Jaskier."


	15. The Joy of the Familiar

###  **Chapter Fifteen: The Joy of the Familiar**

The next day, Jaskier hovered his hands over his lute, sadness streaming from him. 

"Is there someone you'd like to have it?"

He thought a moment before nodding. 

"Anyone, you want to let know you're alive?"

He smiled and nodded.

"Today?"

Jaskier shook his head and held up the stone. He tapped it three times on the table.

Geralt considered his meaning for a moment. "You were hired for three more days?"

Jaskier grinned. 

"I'll look for a contract. Maybe the guard has something."

Jaskier pointed at Geralt's pack and smirked. 

"No more white gull."

With a pat to Geralt's shoulder, Jaskier left for work. 

The guard had a contract to kill drowners in the Oxenfurt sewers. It wasn't for boundless riches but paid a few crowns per head, and there were plenty of heads to be had. Enough to sustain them for a few weeks. Each morning, Jaskier clapped him on the back for luck before walking toward the docks. 

It felt good to kill monsters, to return to what was familiar. Now that he was paying attention, Geralt began to see the familiar in Jaskier, too. His personality hadn't changed. He laughed at the same jokes. Enjoyed the same foods. The choice had never been between his friend and a stranger. His friend had been beside him the entire time. He’d just been too focused on what they lost to understand what wasn’t.

On the third day, Geralt located the nest and destroyed it. The guard captain, Eliasz Tuman, had been reasonable and honest thus far; perhaps he'd be willing to part with extra coin for a nest. Geralt left markers along the route. If the man required proof, he'd provide it. At the barracks, Geralt collected the money for the heads and began the process of haggling for the nest. 

Angry shouting from outside interrupted the exchange. 

A man shouted Dandelion loud enough it carried over the din, and Geralt had a sinking feeling as he followed the Captain outside. Jaskier hung between two guards, his face bloody and his eyes unfocused. They’d secured his wrists with manacles, even though he barely looked capable of walking. The idea of him escaping in this state was ludicrous. 

Another pair of guards struggled to contain another man. He lunged at Jaskier, and they forced him onto his knees. He had manacles on his wrists and blood on his knuckles and spattered across his clothes and face. If not for the rage in his expression, the man would be wholly unremarkable. He had short, straight, brown hair, light stubble, and wore light brown woolen hose, and tunic with minimal embellishments that were probably clean before he'd rolled in the filth of the street.

The other guard said, "This man, Kanimir Socha, attacked this other one outside an inn." He handed Jaskier's stone to the Captain. "He took this from that one."

Captain Tuman read it aloud. "I am Dandelion the mute. I understand you. I want work." He looked at the guard. "Why did you arrest him?" 

Geralt prayed that Jaskier wasn't too stunned to remember to keep his mouth shut. He'd been rolled in the mud and muck of the street. One sleeve was torn, almost ripped away, and his hair was bedraggled and wet. Blood ran from his nose and lips and shone in his beard. The left side of his face was swollen, and blood filled the white of that eye.

One of the men guarding Jaskier said, "The innkeeper said he was mute. Said he kept company with the white-haired witcher, but that one—" He indicated Socha. "—claimed he's actually that bard that caused the ruckus last winter. Julian Alfred Pankratz." 

"That man is no mute!" Socha shouted before the guard gave him a shake to silence him.

"He doesn't look much like the bard that caused that trouble." Captain Tuman lifted Jaskier's hands and looked at the callouses. "These are the callouses of a laborer." He looked over Jaskier critically. "Though not the look of a man raised on hard labor." 

He turned to Geralt. "This man belongs to you?"

"He belongs to himself," Geralt snapped. "But he is my friend."

"Is his name Julian Alfred Pankratz?"

Socha lunged toward Jaskier again, the guard's nearly losing control of him before wrestling him to his knees. "He must be here to attack the Academy. I was only getting him before he got us!"

"Us?" The Captain turned away from Jaskier to talk to Socha. 

Geralt took a step toward Jaskier. "Hold, Witcher," the guards holding Jaskier upright said. Geralt grit his teeth and held his place. He needed more information. If the guards had done this to Jaskier, they could injure him further before Geralt could get to them, and fleeing the city with Jaskier in this condition was out of the question. 

Socha shouted. "Valdo Marx! Pankratz was a threat to him. I had to act."

Tuman frowned. "I remember a big disturbance during the midwinter festival with one Julian Alfred Pankratz at the center of it. Threats, insults, a near riot. Valdo Marx was never mentioned. Not a witness, not a target; he wasn't even at the Academy when it happened."

"But Valdo said it. I overheard it all. This scum is a worthless cad who only has a following among the weak-minded classes that he can manipulate with honeyed words. And poor Valdo, to be forced to deal with such treachery.”

The Captain regarded the man with narrowed eyes. "How do you know Valdo Marx?"

Socha wrung his hands together, his gaze was distant, unresponsive to Tuman's question. "Poor Valdo. He's far too genteel to let something like that be known in public, but it's true. I knew I had to protect him from a snake like Pankratz."

Tuman turned back to Jaskier. "Are you Julian Pankratz?"

Jaskier nodded, peering at the Captain blearily. 

"If that's true, you are no mute."

Jaskier cringed. Geralt twitched toward him before controlling himself. He had to keep this situation calm. _He_ had to be calm, outwardly, at least. 

"Pankratz, you are due some hefty fines and time in our jail over that drunken brawl. Pretending you can't speak will only make it worse for you."

Jaskier hung his head. Geralt bit his tongue. Whatever had happened, it looked like the guards intended to haul Jaskier into the guardhouse at least. He'd cleared the drowners, if the nest wasn't payment enough, he'd pledge whatever he had to, to keep Jaskier from serving time. Even without the injuries—and _Melitele_ the blood was dripping onto the ground now—a mute in prison would be the target for so much abuse. Geralt bit his tongue against saying the wrong thing. His outrage would have to wait until after securing Jaskier's release. 

Captain Tuman pushed Jaskier's sleeves up, noting the bruises beginning to fade to green from Jaskier's trouble on the docks, but his fingers also lingered on the near-invisible remains Geralt had left. Captain Tuman tipped Jaskier's head up and looked more closely. "Unlace the vest," he said to one of the guards. 

Jaskier squirmed. Geralt held his place, but if they tried to whip Jaskier, he'd fight the whole town rather than allow it. 

Captain Tuman rucked Jaskier's tunic up, exposing bruises and the long scar on his ribs. "Your friend seems accident-prone, Witcher."

Geralt didn't answer. A crowd was gathering, another layer of people between them and escape. 

Captain Tuman turned to Geralt. "Is he mute?"

"He can make sounds, but can't communicate sensibly apart from gestures. It renders him effectively mute."

"Hmm. Convenient."

Tuman surveyed the growing crowd in the courtyard. "Bring them inside." The guards dragged Socha and Jaskier toward the door. The Captain stopped in front of Geralt. "You, too, Witcher."

Geralt nodded, relief flooding through him at not having to argue for his place inside. 

Inside Tuman said, "Leave your weapons on my desk. They will be returned when this is sorted."

Geralt stripped his weapons as fast as possible. He faced Captain Tuman. "You won't mistreat Jaskier."

"No one will. Which is why I am taking these precautions until this is sorted. This cell." The Captain indicated the first of three cells on the right side of the hall. He waved Geralt inside. 

Fuck. He'd come this far and only cooperated himself into lockup. The door clanged as the lock fell into place. 

They dragged Socha, kicking and snarling, into the middle cell on the left side of the hall. His manacles were clipped to a chain near the bed at the back. He rattled and struggled and strained at the restraint. Jaskier, they took into the third cell on the right side.

"He looks to be in need of a healer. You, go fetch one," he said, pointing at one of the guards. "Take the manacles off him." 

Jaskier leaned on the bars. He looked paler than he had, and Geralt itched to give him a thorough check over. 

"Now to get to the bottom of this. Formally. I am Captain Eliasz Tuman. You are Geralt of Rivia, the witcher that is known to travel with a bard called Jaskier, real name, Julian Alfred Pancrantz."

"Yes."

Socha fell to the floor yanking on the restraints, and muttering curses. The guard standing nearest tightened his grip on his halberd, but otherwise didn't react to the histrionics.

He stepped up to Jaskier's cell. "You claim to be that bard, but you dress as a laborer, have laborer callouses, and have convinced the innkeeper you are a mute. You are also wanted for causing a brawl at the Academy at the time of the mid-winter festival."

Jaskier nodded and clutched his stomach. With him curled up, Geralt saw blood trailing down his back from a head wound. 

Socha screamed from the other cell. "Why am I in here? I tried to stop him! I would have too if he wasn't so slippery!"

"I will address you shortly, Socha," Captain Tuman said without looking at him. He leaned in closer to Jaskier. "Now, _Dandelion_. Is it true that you are 'effectively mute?'"

Jaskier nodded. 

"And that man attacked you?"

Another nod. 

"Had you done anything to provoke him?"

Jaskier pointed at Socha then covered his eyes while shaking his head.

"Are you saying you hadn't seen him?"

Jaskier nodded. 

"You've never seen him?"

Jaskier nodded. He held his head and groaned. 

Geralt gripped the bars so tight his knuckles turned white. He didn't dare interfere, Tuman had sent for a healer and was investigating like a rational person, but he wanted so badly to be over there giving Jaskier what care he could before the healer arrived. 

"He's lying! Just like he lied about poor Valdo."

Captain Tuman turned to a guard and said, "Fetch Valdo Marx." He made a 'negating' motion, and the guard nodded. 

"You mean he'll be here? I need to change. No, no, the blood will be fine. That way he'll know what I did for him."

Tuman pounced on that. "What did you do for him?"

"Everybody had to see how vile that monster is! I made them see. I led them in trying to rid the world of his evil, and he's claiming he never saw me? You see? You see, even silent he lies!"

Jaskier picked that moment to vomit.

"Get a mop and bucket," Tuman called over his shoulder.

Socha strained at the end of his chain, his eyes wide and pleading. "You see, right? You believe me?"

"I believe I'm beginning to. Tell me more, Kanimir." Tuman's voice was understanding, friendly, seamlessly manipulative. It marked him as a dangerously good interrogator. Only the best understood how much more effective sympathy was than pain. 

Geralt split his attention between listening to Socha and watching Jaskier. The unlucky guard shifted Jaskier to lying on the bed without being rough, but his commanding officer stood next to him. Geralt didn't trust the gentle act.

"I told you. I saw them fighting, heard what Valdo said."

"And Pankratz, what did he say in this fight?"

The guard dealing with Jaskier, left the cell door open as he fetched cleaning supplies. It mollified Geralt's worry somewhat, but he still ached to be in there with Jaskier. 

"The vilest things! He called my Valdo an untalented hack that didn't deserve his place at court! How dare he make such a vile attack?"

"Did this 'fight' come to blows?"

"No. If it had, I would have— I would have—" He broke off screeching.

_Fuck._ Geralt looked over at Jaskier lying on the bed bleeding. All of this over the kind of verbal squabble that must happen a dozen times a day at the Academy?

Tuman waited until Socha had calmed, before asking, "Was that the extent of their exchange?"

"No! Pankratz said that Valdo didn't deserve to headline the festival in Novigrad and that he was going to see to it that this was the last time Valdo won that honor."

The healer arrived and entered the open cell to check on Jaskier. 

"That disturbance at the Academy during the festival, did you play a role in that?"

"Drink this," the healer said to Jaskier.

"Did I have a role? Of course, I had a role! If only it had taken longer for him to figure out what the curse did. He had that party eating out of his hands until I stuck a knife in his ribs. He showed the vile true nature of his words then!"

"You'll be fine, friend," the healer said as Jaskier gagged on the bitter tincture.

"What happened then?"

"Was he unconscious at any point?" the healer asked the guard.

Geralt lost the guard's response as Socha began speaking.

"I followed. Watched him threaten and malign everyone he came across! He had no right to choose silence and thwart justice! I shouted for the guard and the people he threatened along the way did the rest. Until _your_ people let him get away!"

"I see."

"When will Valdo be here?" Socha smoothed his tunic. "I need to be ready for him."

"There is so much more we need to discuss before I bring Marx in."

Geralt's nerves began to settle. It felt reassuring to watch a competent investigator work. He was beginning to think Jaskier would be treated fairly here. 

"What? But you told him to go fetch, Valdo. He's going to be here. He has to be."

"Not for some time. Wait quietly, or it won't happen at all. Healer, how is your patient?"

The healer stood up. "Florentyn Zieba, at your service. It would be better to take him to the hospital for observation and stitches."

"How serious is his condition?"

"He needs care and rest. You won't get much out of him for at least a day or two. He has a serious concussion, possibly fractures around his eye, broken nose, bruised or fractured rib. He could be bleeding internally." Zieba squared off as if he expected a fight. "I want to move him. We can chain him to the bed if need be, but he's not going anywhere for a few days."

"What about me? I think my hand is broken. Where is _my_ healer?"

Tuman ignored Socha. "Take him," he said to the healer. "He was wanted, but the only thing we'll want now is a victim statement."

Zieba brightened. "Thank you, Captain! I have a litter if you have a guard to spare?"

"Of course. Take Silar." 

"What?" Socha lunged forward, the chain pulling him up short. "I thought you understood! You can't let him go! He's a threat. All threats must be eliminated." He wrenched at the chain and screeched as the healer and guard moved Jaskier onto the stretcher. 

Geralt slumped against the bars in relief. Jaskier wasn't going to prison and was getting the care he needed. The list of injuries was daunting. What if he was bleeding internally? The concussion had been obvious, and how much worse was it considering he'd only just recovered from the damage of the Hieronymus Dreams potion? He wanted to tear Socha apart, but the man fell into a sullen silence, and Tuman pressed his advantage.

"How long have you been protecting Valdo Marx?"

"Since I learned of his love for me," Socha's tone turned wistful. "After the harvest festival concert last fall, he opened the door of his dressing room. He moved with such grace that I didn't hear him approaching in time to move away. The door slammed open. He was in a hurry you see, and it knocked me down and bloodied my nose. He offered his hand to help me up, and he said, 'I apologize for catching you with the door like that. Here, take my handkerchief, it's the least I can do.' And then he hurried away."

"You were listening at his door?"

"Of course! The chance to observe the great Valdo Marx's habits? I'd been following him since I dealt with that ingrate, Marcin Blach."

"You dealt with him?"

"You thought that hack could write such an elegant suicide note? Hah!"

The healer and guard secured Jaskier to the litter, and Geralt was too caught up in the confession to demand his own immediate release.

"Have you killed anyone else?"

"What do you take me for? A barbarian? I gave Marcin the release he so clearly desired. I learned from my mistakes with Marcin. It was my fault, really, I didn't protect him well enough. You'll see, I didn't make that mistake again. Everyone that has crossed my sweet Valdo got the punishment they deserved!"

Captain Tuman looked shaken at the enormity of this confession. "Did you curse others?"

Socha laughed. "So many others! All different. The punishment must befit the crime, of course."

Tuman turned to Geralt as they carried Jaskier out. "It's going to be a long night. We've had an unsettled, 'accident' prone Academy suffering a plague of petty crimes for half a year now, and I suspect much more we never knew about." He glanced back at Socha and shook his head. "Forgive my caution, Witcher, but the young bard has clearly suffered ongoing injuries. Explain your part in this, and I'll release you."

Geralt gave a terse account of his time with Jaskier. 

Tuman shook his head as he opened the cell door. "As you can see, I pride myself on attempting to be thorough and fair. I understand why he would run after being rejected by so many while injured."

Geralt stopped at Socha's cell. "What words did you use to curse Pankratz?" The name did not roll off his tongue, but he thought it better to play the madman's game. 

"It'll never be broken."

"The words, Socha." Gealt flicked his fingers in axii at the man, hiding the motion from the Captain. 

"Make vile and sour his honeyed words and works, till true acceptance in his and another's hearts be found"

Geralt understood the witch's refusal to tell him now. Hearing the curse meant that they could never be sure that the acceptance was real and not a long attempt at breaking the curse. They must have been close, so very close. Jaskier had made the decision to accept his life back on the farm. He'd waited, unable to explain until Geralt realized on his own.

Why hadn't it worked? Had he held onto hope? He could never tell Jaskier. "A word with you outside?"

Tuman followed him out. 

Geralt said, "The curse cannot be broken by any that hear its words. I ask that you keep the words quiet."

Tuman nodded. "I will take the word of a witcher for the intricacies of breaking curses. When he's healed, I would like to attempt to interview him. If you are in Oxenfurt at the time, your greater experience with communication with him would be appreciated."

"I'll be here."

Tuman's gaze raked over Geralt, evaluating. He nodded slowly before asking, "If I get the wording for more curses, would you accept coin to aide the victims?"

"I'll do it for room and board for myself and Jaskier, plus covering the healer's charges."

"Done. Thank you, friend."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [ Tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/miahclone/)for Witcher fic-recs, snippets, occasional prompt fills, and just because I love talking about these awesome characters.
> 
> If you enjoyed my writing and would like to reblog this story, you can [ do so here!](https://miahclone.tumblr.com/post/632984693878505472/honeyed-words-vile-hearts-chapter-15-the/)


	16. King of a Very Small, Worthless Hill

###  **Chapter Sixteen: King of a Very Small, Worthless Hill**

"Jas—Julian Pankratz," Geralt said to the first doctor he saw, a short, slight man in red robes and a pristine white apron with perfectly groomed black hair and beard. 

The man turned to face Geralt. His features twisted into a sneer. "Ah yes, the prisoner.” 

Geralt took a deep breath and resisted the urge to axii this pompous fool. "He isn't a prisoner."

"That's what Zierba claimed, too. He's been posted in Novigrad far too long, and it's left him thinking the guards are the enemy, and prisoners are poor abused souls that need his protection."

"Where is the _patient?_ " If he didn't answer this time, Geralt was using _axii_ , witnesses be damned, or maybe an arm across the throat… No. He wouldn't let himself go down that fantasy path. 

"Zierba," The man tapped a finger to his lips, "is probably skulking around wasting resources on the prisoner even though I ordered him off."

Geralt growled out, "Pankratz. Where is he?"

The doctor’s gaze swept over Geralt as if he only now realized he was facing a very large, very angry man. "General ward with the other degenerates," he said hurriedly and flapped a hand toward the hallway.

Fine. Geralt stalked through the halls in the direction the doctor had pointed. From what Zierba said in the guard tower, Jaskier was seriously injured, and now he was alone, with no voice, in a hostile environment. The deeper Geralt went into the hospital, the more the odors got to him. Putrid infection, alcohol, acrid cleaners, human waste, blood—the scent of an astringent cleaner lay over everything, but it couldn't fully destroy the smells of human sickness and misery. 

Geralt found Zierba. The healer nearly walked into him as they rounded a corner. He flinched and took a step back. "They released you?"

"Yes."

Zierba squared his shoulders and lifted his chin defiantly as he had when facing off against Captain Tuman. "Why are you here?"

"For Jaskier."

He crossed his arms. His heart rate had spiked. "What are you to my patient?" 

The man was afraid but choosing to stand his ground. Geralt respected that. He loosened his stance and softened his voice. "Friend and travel companion."

"Dangerous travel." 

Zierba had noticed the older bruises, just as Tuman had. It hurt that their first response was suspicion that he had injured Jaskier. It hurt more knowing that he had recently injured Jaskier. He shrugged. "Sometimes. How badly was he hurt?"

"Hmm." Zierba let his arms fall to his sides. "Well, he's not as bad off as I suspected."

The tension gripping Geralt eased. "Go on."

"The communication difficulties are posing some problems. It's hard to assess mental status in a patient that can only nod."

"I can help with that. I've had a lot of practice the last six months with interpreting Jaskier's gestures."

He sighed. "I suppose it won't hurt to tell you. He has a concussion. There may be some minor fracturing around the left eye, but if his vision remains clear, it'll heal on its own. His ribs are only bruised. There isn't likely to be any internal bleeding, but if there is, it's minor. We need to keep him under observation for a day or two, considering the communication barrier."

"He's not a prisoner."

The doctor humphed at him. "I'm well aware of that. Even if he were, I'd treat him the same."

"I'll hold you to that. I want to see him."

"Of course. I have to complete the rounds of my other patients, but I will be back to see...Jaskier, you called him?"

Geralt nodded. "Jaskier."

"Good, Jaskier. I will be around to check on him, ask more in-depth questions when I've finished my rounds. It shouldn't be terribly long." He motioned to a trainee. "Piekos! Take him to Julian Pankratz." He looked back at Geralt, "He's registered under that name."

"It's his birth name." Geralt shrugged. 

The trainee escorted Geralt to the ward Jaskier had been taken to. It was a general ward, with six beds, four of them occupied. The scent of cleaner burned Geralt's nose and made his eyes prickle. All of them showed signs of serious injury, and Geralt was glad to see that the staff here were keeping the ill and injured apart. Jaskier was propped up in the bed with pillows to ease breathing through the swelling. They'd washed him off, treated the cuts, and put him in a clean robe. A blanket was tucked up around him. Something weakly magical had eased the swelling, but Jaskier looked like shit. 

The care and cleanliness only made the bruising and cuts stand out more starkly. Jaskier slowly turned his head toward Geralt as he neared the bed. The white of his left eye was still filled with blood, adding to the overall grisly image. 

Geralt stopped at the foot of the bed. "You lose any teeth?"

Jaskier's lips quirked, and he shook his head fractionally. 

"At least you'll still be pretty." He sat in the chair next to the bed and grasped one of Jaskier's hands. "Not any time soon…"

Jaskier chuckled and winced. 

"You going to remember this tomorrow?"

He shrugged. 

"I'm staying in town. The guard has hired my help to deal with Socha."

Jaskier squirmed and pressed his lips together. 

Geralt knew what he wanted so badly to ask. "You want to know why he did it?"

Jaskier nodded, relaxing.

Geralt hesitated. What could he say that wouldn't crush his spirit? "Socha is a monster, Jaskier. He's hurt a lot of people. It wasn't personal against you."

Jaskier drew in a long breath. The pain in his expression hurt to see. He waved over himself and shook his head. 

"That's what monsters do. They hurt people. It doesn't mean anything but misery for the ones they target."

Jaskier closed his eyes. He remained like that a long time before he looked up at Geralt and smiled, lopsided with the damage, but real. He brought Geralt's hand up to his chest, over his heart, and held it there. Geralt felt the steady beat under his palm, and he understood. Despite everything he'd been through, Jaskier was strong, and they'd get through this together, just like they always did.

"You're going to be alright?"

Jaskier nodded. 

Geralt squeezed his shoulder. "Good. Get some rest." 

Geralt remained in the chair beside him through the night. 

The next day, a man a little older than Jaskier swanned into the ward, flirting with the female trainees, and winking at the other patients. He wore the finest silk clothing in garishly bright colors and a cap with a peacock feather in it. His clothes hung wrong as if he'd recently lost weight. His eyes were bloodshot and though he wore makeup, the dark bags under his eyes showed through. 

It was an artful deception, Geralt thought. The weight loss and poor sleep were real, but he’d had the clothes altered to hang in a way that highlighted the loss and the makeup intentionally missed covering the shadows.

He stopped at the foot of Jaskier's bed and took his cap in his hands. A humble pose, but ruined by his satisfied smirk. "Is that really you under that beard, Julian?"

Jaskier scowled at the man.

"Valdo Marx?" Geralt directed his question to Jaskier, who nodded. 

"Indeed I am," the man said. "Julian, I had no idea that-that _zeugl_ targeted you. I am positively distraught!" He sniffed. "They told me you're mute and working at the docks?"

Jaskier glared but didn't respond.

Valdo, oblivious to Jaskier’s lack of welcome, continued. "How awful that must be! I shall miss our rivalry, even if you never really had a hope of winning it."

Geralt heard Jaskier's teeth grinding together and spoke for him. "Why did you come here?"

"To offer my condolences, of course. I have had the most devastating experience. All this time, someone has been stalking me. Flowers appear in my bedchambers, even when I’ve double-checked the lock on the door. My underclothes go missing! You have no idea the inconvenience I’ve been under. And to top it off, people have accused _me_ of perpetuating these incidences. They've even gone so far as to say I am making it all up and doing these things myself for attention. Can you imagine? _Me_ needing to make things up for attention! Perhaps they are correct and I am cursed. Cursed to shine like a star, inciting passion in all who behold my glory. Jaskier, you are indeed fortunate to be out of the public eye."

"You've said enough," Geralt growled.

Valdo ignored Geralt's obvious hint that he should leave. "My detractors will be sorry now, won't they? With Socha caught, I'll be more popular than ever!" His gaze lost focus. "The parties they'll throw in my honor, and the apologies—so many apologies. I'll be sorting through gifts and letters for weeks."

"It's time for you to leave," Geralt said, standing up and giving his best 'menacing loom' as Jaskier had once called it.

Valdo snapped out of his reverie. "Yes, well, good luck in your new life, _Dandelion_."

Jaskier sat up straight and said, "You're a pompous, talentless hack. You'll always be a petty, pathetic windbag. King of a very small, worthless hill."

Valdo took a step back, his shoulders rounding as Jaskier spoke. After a moment's hesitation, he smiled. "They warned me about your awful curse, how it twists and sullies your words. I understand, and I forgive you. Thank you for whatever you meant to say."

Jaskier's scowl deepened and Valdo retreated, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to leave. Jaskier flopped onto the pillow, then groaned and curled up holding his head and ribs. 

Geralt frowned. Something was out of place, but what was it? He played over the scene in his head. Everything seemed infuriating but normal. Valdo was a self-centered nightmare. Jaskier was right to call him a talentless hack….

His medallion hadn't buzzed when Jaskier spoke!

He gripped Jaskier's shoulders and pulled him upright. "Say something."

Jaskier's eyes went wide and his heart sped up. He shook his head.

"Do it. Say something. Anything."

Jaskier tried to twist free of Geralt's grasp. Moisture gathered at his lower eyelids, and he scrubbed a hand across them. "Why? Why do you want to hear me call you Butcher and murderer and other horrible things, Geralt? I'm done. I swear I'm never going to talk—"

Geralt clapped a hand over Jaskier's mouth. "Don't make a vow of silence. Not now."

Jaskier frowned at him, confusion and hurt shining in his eyes. 

Geralt didn't release him, not yet, and the moment was so unusual that Jaskier didn't do something childish like licking his hand in an attempt to force it. "My medallion didn't tingle."

Jaskier's eyes widened, and he pawed at Geralt's hand.

"I heard you call Valdo a 'petty, pathetic windbag. King of a very small hill.' Tell me that's what you said."

Jaskier froze, his hands on Geralt's. He nodded. 

"And you asked me why I would want to hear you say horrible things about me."

He nodded and opened his mouth, tongue poking out. Geralt yanked his hand away before Jaskier licked him. He licked his lips instead. Drew in deep breaths. Geralt placed his hand on Jaskier's chest and rubbed slow circles, the way Jaskier had soothed him so many times. Geralt breathed in time with the motion of his hand, offering a nonverbal cue to Jaskier to slow down and avoid hyperventilating. 

Jaskier opened and closed his mouth. He began sounds, but cut them off, unable to move past the months of training himself into silence. Finally, he squeezed his eyes shut and blurted out, "Can you understand me?"

"Yes!" Geralt wanted to drag Jaskier into a hug and squeeze and never let go, but he restrained himself to cupping the uninjured side of Jaskier's face. "Yes, I understand you. Speak. Speak until I forget how relieved I am to hear your voice and yell at you to shut up, then remind me of this moment and keep speaking."


	17. Memorable Monsters

###  **Chapter Seventeen: Memorable Monsters**

They remained in Oxenfurt for two weeks. Geralt put his effort into putting out some of Socha's fires. He freed five other people from suffering his curses. One, a young woman who had spurned Valdo’s advances, suffered under an unsightly skin rash of pustules. Another, a man who had bumped against Valdo in passing, had lost the use of his legs. 

Socha was a monster Geralt would remember for the rest of his days. 

While in the hospital, Jaskier received a stream of well-wishers and visitors. One of the first had been a matronly woman Jaskier called his 'dorm mother.' 

“I packed up and saved all the things you’d left behind, dear. I always knew you weren’t responsible for those things they said you’d done.” 

Jaskier had been speechless.

He'd been speechless a lot the last three weeks, falling back to hand signals, and today was no different. Zierba had cleared him to travel but stressed that it should remain light travel with no 'wild adventures' for the next two weeks at least. They stopped at midday to rest. 

Geralt had left him to his silence as they walked. Now, sitting still, Jaskier turned to him, full of excitement, only to freeze. Geralt had seen the same pattern many times throughout the duration of the curse. He knew from experience, after an injury, it took time to find a new normal, to learn how to move without the expectation of pain even after healing. Geralt hated the thought that Jaskier was going through the same experience with his voice.

It didn’t help to coddle. The one time Geralt attempted to offer comfort had resulted in a near argument and more brooding silence.

Geralt smiled and clapped Jaskier on the back. "Shut up, Jaskier."

Jaskier shot him a look of hurt before he smiled. "Have you forgotten already?" He bumped Geralt's shoulder with his own and winked. "I saw the most beautiful jay a moment ago. One of those fine fellows saved my life this winter, you know."

Jaskier trailed off into silence. 

Geralt didn't know, so he asked, "When?"

"Hmm? Oh, after the angry mob ran me out of the Marked Lantern. I didn't dare slip back into town right away. You'd've been proud of me. I found a hollow worn out under tree roots, and I lined it with leaves. I even wove twigs together to block it off." He stopped and looked at Geralt.

This, too, was new. Jaskier often paused, waiting for some input from Geralt to reassure himself that he was understood. "Sounds snug."

Jaskier nodded. "It was. But hunger drove me out. I found a jay's stash of beechnuts and stole them."

He fell back to silence. He looked more himself. The beard was gone, his hair shorter. The bruises from Socha's attack remained but were fading. Though Jaskier had his own clothes now, he wore the tunic and leather jerkin, and he silently set himself to chores in the evenings instead of scribbling songs in his journal. 

Back on the road after their midday rest, Jaskier chattered without pauses for the first time since the curse. About everything. About nothing. Until Geralt was tempted to tell him to either say something of substance or nothing, but he lost the thought to watching Jaskier's hands move as he spoke, almost as animated as he'd been last year for the first time. 

Everything he'd communicated the last months had been with his hands and expressions. Seeing him now, hands flying as he talked about the shapes of the clouds—and didn't Geralt see the woman there and the hare over there—Geralt realized how necessity had quieted even Jaskier's hands. Every gesture, every movement had to mean something when he had no voice. Since the curse had been broken, he'd barely moved his arms and hands at all when he spoke. 

Geralt watched Jaskier outline the shape of a dog and didn't tell him to say something of substance.

In the evening Jaskier played his lute. His fingertips had gotten soft, and the notes rang sour after only a short while. 

"It sounded better to me before. The poor thing was so out of tune and jostled that it's amazing Irena was able to save it—and she's the best luthier in Oxenfurt, maybe the continent—but I heard what I wanted to hear." He put it away and lay back on his bedroll. "No wonder they chased me away."

Geralt propped himself up on his elbow to better watch Jaskier talk.

"I didn't understand, didn't think it had taken everything. I had my lute. I thought I could busk."

He trailed off. Geralt asked, "Where were you?" 

"Laris."

"That's not far from Oxenfurt."

Jaskier scowled. "It is when you're cold and bleeding and hungry."

Geralt nodded. "It is."

"They all turned on me, Geralt. There was blood everywhere, and people I've known for years looked at me like I was the threat."

Geralt understood this. Jaskier needed this storm to rage through him. Geralt would have worried less for him if it had happened long ago.

"And then! They couldn't wait to come see the freak after everything was fine. The cursed bard. The curio! How many songs do you think they'll write to increase their fame at my expense?"

"If you didn't want the visitors, why didn't you say so? I would have stopped them."

"I don't know! I thought I wanted to see them. Now I wish I hadn't. I don't understand myself right now!"

“You’re angry,” Geralt said in wonder. 

"I don't—" Jaskier rolled to his side and pressed close to Geralt's chest. It muffled his voice. "—I don't _want_ to be angry. I don't _want_ to resent them."

He recognized this: when a family feared him after he saved them, when people spit at him as he passed, when ealdermen refused to pay… but he'd thought the confused anger was a failing, a mark of his inhumanity. If Jaskier could feel it too… 

The important thing was he had experience with it. "The best way past is through sometimes."

Jaskier sat up. His scowl deepened and he let forth a torrent of grievances. The pent-up energies were too much for him to contain and he jumped up to pace. He spoke of friends refusing aid, strangers verbally and physically assaulting him, of cold and exhaustion, resentment over Geralt being late, and much more. 

Geralt knelt and listened to all of it. There was nothing he could say, even if he wanted to. He was well familiar with being called a freak, treated as a curiosity at best, but did he remember how it felt the first time? It had been so long ago and hurled at him so often… He was young. Younger than Jaskier. It hurt and made him furious and made him want to retaliate. 

The mood snapped and Jaskier dropped to his knees in front of Geralt, breathing hard and holding his head in his hands. "I'm still angry," he murmured.

And Geralt understood. He handed Jaskier a blanket and mug of calming tea before the adrenalin let down started. Jaskier sipped the tea, a tremor started as he settled and Geralt moved to his side. Jaskier leaned against his shoulder and Geralt hugged him close. 

Early the next day they overtook a merchant. Jaskier greeted the man as soon as they were near. When the man turned to respond, Jaskier paled and stepped behind Geralt. The merchant was halfway through his greeting when he noticed Jaskier's strange behavior.

"Jaskier, you said, ‘Good morning, looks like a pleasant day.’” 

Jaskier gulped, but nodded. “Yes, I did, didn’t I?” He hesitated again, and Geralt nodded in confirmation. Jaskier relaxed further and fell into step at the merchant’s side to ask after the man’s travels. 

They chatted until near midday when Geralt placed his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “Let’s stop at that tree ahead to rest.” 

He didn’t say it out loud, but he’d seen Jaskier start flagging, his responses getting slower, less witty. Geralt wasn't sure if it was the walking and heat with the recent concussion and beating or the strain of the social interaction.

Jaskier gave him a smile.

He'd made the right call then whatever the reason. 

The merchant shook his head. "I'm pushing on. I want to be in Raoul by mid-afternoon, to set up my wares." He leaned closer to Jaskier. "That’s your lute, isn’t it? Why don’t you join me when you catch up? A little music wouldn't hurt my sales."

Geralt kept his expression impassive as Jaskier looked at him rather than make his own answer. 

Jaskier swallowed hard. "Unfortunately, there's a problem with the lute."

The merchant shrugged. "Ah well, perhaps if we meet again." The merchant sped up and left them behind.

Jaskier flopped down in the shade with his arm over his eyes. "Fuck I'm tired."

"We can take it slower this afternoon."

"It's not just that, although, yes, my head is throbbing and I feel like I'm going cross-eyed. I'm tired of forgetting. Tired of expecting to be attacked every time I greet someone. Just _tired_."

Geralt hastily lit a fire and put water in the kettle. Jaskier didn't move. It was the first time in months he hadn't pushed himself to help, and that made up Geralt's mind. They'd set camp here. The area was far enough off the road to be away from the travelers' dust and had been built up with a fire ring and large rocks to sit on. 

He shook out their bedrolls and laid them side by side. Jaskier's body was tense, and he hadn't taken his arm off his eyes. Geralt added a small dose of elysium to Jaskier's cup before pouring the aniseed tea. 

"Move over to the bedroll."

Jaskier groaned dramatically. "I'll stay here forever, thanks." But he slowly stood up and brushed his clothes off. The groan as he settled onto the bedroll wasn't fake.

"Drink this."

He sniffed and held the cup away. "This'll make me sleepy."

Geralt took Roach's saddle off. "I know. You need to sleep. We'll continue tomorrow."

Jaskier sipped the tea.

"Do you feel like eating?" Geralt asked when he'd finished caring for Roach.

"No."

Geralt settled onto his bedroll, their sides touching. Jaskier leaned heavier on Geralt as the tea took effect. When he began to snore, Geralt dragged him lower, his head pillowed on Geralt's thigh. Jaskier's heart and breathing rates were slow and steady, and Geralt sat doing nothing but listening to them for an embarrassing length of time.


	18. Thanks for the Past

###  **Chapter Eighteen: Thanks for the Past**

Geralt made sure they took a slower pace the next day. It took them a week more to walk back to the druid farm near Murky Waters. Jaskier strolled alongside Geralt playing his lute as they walked the last miles. He had to stop often for sore fingers, but he was practicing several times a day now and said last night he'd be back to his former glory in no time. 

Geralt listened in, unashamed of noting the daily improvements. The sounds that had often grated on his nerves in the past remained a novelty to be enjoyed and savored. 

"A moment, please?" Jaskier said.

Geralt stopped while Jaskier put the lute in its case. 

They walked in silence for a while, but the closer they got to the farm, the more fidgety Jaskier got. Geralt waited for it. They crested a small hill, and the farm spread out before them. 

Jaskier stopped. "They were so kind to me. Thanks feels insignificant for what it meant to me."

"I doubt that'll be all you say to them."

He laughed. "True. Do you dare play gwent with Marek again?"

"That chicken house was cleaner than most of my contracts."

"I will grant you that they run a tight ship. Their sons should be back by now. Maybe they've heard of a promising contract."

"You're stalling."

Jaskier ducked his head. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Stagefright, I suppose." He set off at a fast pace.

Geralt could press him. The answer had some truth in it, but far from all. No, he'd let Jaskier take his own time. 

The top of the half-door stood open, and the scent of herbs being distilled into essential oils roiled out to greet them. Geralt knocked on the door frame and Lena called out, "Coming!"

She peeked out of the door, then flung the bottom half-open. "Jaskier!" She grabbed his head with both hands and dragged him down to her level to kiss him on each cheek before enveloping him in a hug. 

Jaskier blushed and didn't say anything. 

Lena held him out at arm's length, looking him over. "Come inside. I've got just the thing for that headache."

Geralt waited for Jaskier to say something, but he didn't, so Geralt followed them inside.

Lena took Jaskier to the table and handed him a cup of tea. "The road doesn't look to have been easy for you, but it is nice to see your face this time!" she waved a hand toward his lack of beard and short hair. "Is this a short rest or a long one?"

"Short," Geralt said after a pause for Jaskier to answer for himself.

She took the answer in stride, returning to processing her herbs. "You'll get to meet our boys, Leon and Artur, and their families at supper tonight."

"Lena?" Jaskier said, hesitantly.

She tensed and pivoted to stare at him.

"The curse is broken." He braced as if waiting for the old druid to take back her hospitality. 

She smiled and rushed over, smothering him against her ample bosom. Geralt tried to turn his snort of laughter into a cough, but it was enough for Lena to release Jaskier. "Forgive me." She patted his face. "Dear boy. This is wonderful! How long has it been?"

Jaskier smoothed his hair down. "Twenty-four days."

"Excellent! What will you do now? You're welcome to stay with us as long as you need."

Jaskier's shoulders relaxed, so worry over his reception as someone, not a 'stray' was what'd sent him quiet. Geralt wouldn't tell him he'd always be the stray _he'd_ made the mistake of feeding. In normal times, but Jaskier was too brittle now. 

"We'll accept chores for room and board. Harvest season keeps Marek and the youngsters working such long hours that the rest is a misery on them."

"What do you need?" Geralt asked.

"I believe you're already familiar with the chicken house?" Lena said with a twinkle in her eye.

Geralt huffed. "Fine."

"Stables?" Jaskier asked. He tensed as he said it. He'd taken care of the stables before and liked horses, but his tone seemed hesitant. 

"Hmm, later, when they bring the horses back. I have garden work for you now."

"I'll take the stables. I'm not much for gardening," Geralt said before Lena could add that to his list.

They kept busy the rest of the afternoon. Jaskier worked with Lena and Geralt found chores to do outside. It wasn't monster hunting, but it kept him busy and saved their coin purse. 

The rest of Lena's family trudged in from the fields near sunset. Three children moved along ahead of the adults, splitting off toward the chickens, pigs, and goats. 

The smallest ran back to the adults. "Someone fed the pigs already!"

"Your grandmother must have taken lodgers in for chores," Marek said. 

Geralt stepped around the corner of the barn. "She did."

Marek smiled broadly and came at Geralt with his arms open wide for a hug. "You brought Jaskier back to us?"

"He brought me."

"Oh? Well, I'm glad to see you, no matter the reason. You've done all the chores already?"

"Except the horses."

"You've no idea how it lightens me to not need worry about the evening chores."

The group walked toward the house with a lighter step, while Geralt took the horses to the barn. The reward for this 'contract' wasn't much monetarily, but he'd done worse for less. 

At supper, the sons and their families collected their food and took it outside to eat, claiming the strong scent of Lena's herbs overpowered the flavors. Jaskier had been chatting away with the whole family when Geralt returned from the barn. He was acting more his normal self now, at least. 

The talk of the meal inevitably turned to what they'd been doing since they left. 

"Thank you for your stone, Lena," Jaskier said. "It helped. I managed well using it."

"Good. I knew you were a survivor."

"How was the curse broken? Was capturing the man responsible enough?" Marek asked. 

"I...I don't know. I was pretty out of it during that whole confession thing. Geralt?"

"No. That wasn't the cause. The curse couldn't be broken by anyone that knew what it was."

Jaskier frowned. "And he told you what it was, so..."

"Hmm, yes. You saved yourself, Jaskier. You accepted the life it left you, and you convinced me to do the same."

"That's-that's all it took? Saying we accepted it?" Jaskier's heart pounded. 

Geralt put his hand on Jaskier's shoulder. "No. And that's why if we had known the curse, it couldn't have been lifted. You had to truly accept the loss and convince someone else to do the same. If we'd known, we always would have harbored hope, and that hope would have doomed you."

"You— When you came to see me, after talking to him, you thought it would never be broken."

Geralt sighed. "Yes."

Jaskier breathed too fast, approaching hyperventilating. "It was so close. A few days difference in him finding me and-and—"

"Breathe slower. Yes, it was too close, but it's over now."

He nodded and his breathing evened. 

"Have you begun playing your lute again?" Lena asked, reminding both of them that they weren't alone. 

Geralt pulled his hand away from Jaskier's shoulder, and after another shaky, slow breath, Jaskier smiled.  
The near panic of a moment before slid under the surface. "Indeed I have! I'm almost back to my normal, grand standards."

"Would you be willing to play for us a while?"

Jaskier gulped, the fear peeking through the cracks. "I would love to."

Lena patted his hand. "We don't require it. Perhaps you'll feel better tomorrow."

He smiled, "I appreciate that."

The discussion turned lighter after that. Or more accurately, Lena and Marek took over and kept it light. Geralt was happy enough to let them. Everyone headed to bed as soon as the dishes were cleared. Geralt and Jaskier were given the same room they'd shared the last time. 

Memories of Jaskier caught in the throes of the Hieronymus Dreams potion assailed Geralt. He'd rather sleep in the barn, but Jaskier hadn't looked comfortable with the barn, either. They didn't speak as they prepared for bed. The bed was small, too small for two grown men to be comfortable, so Geralt shook out a blanket, intending to take the floor the first night. 

"We could share." 

Geralt opened his mouth to refuse. The bed was too small, but Jaskier's uneasy smile and wide eyes changed his mind. "Alright."

They lay on their sides, facing each other. Jaskier relaxed, and Geralt thought he'd gone to sleep.

"I still see them. The monsters. The shadows."

 _Fuck_. "They're not real."

"I don't mean like that. When I close my eyes. When I try to sleep. They're waiting."

Geralt breathed out in relief. "I've got you."

"I know," Jaskier murmured. 

The room affected Geralt, too. He'd held Jaskier right here on this bed while he screamed. The fear when Jaskier remained confused and, later, non-responsive hung over him in this room. It took far too long to fall asleep. 

Moaning woke him. His eyes snapped open to blackness. He concentrated. Jaskier's heart raced, and he whimpered. "Jaskier." 

He trembled, but didn't wake and Geralt's memory jumped to the last time he woke to the sounds of Jaskier stuck in a nightmare. He reached for the candle. " _Igni_." Light flickered into life. Geralt shook Jaskier's shoulder. "Jaskier. Wake up!"

His eyes flew open, and he jerked away from Geralt. He brushed his sweaty hair away from his eyes and shivered. 

"Alright now?"

Jaskier nodded.

Geralt scooted across the bed, leaning against the wall beside Jaskier. "You want to talk about it?"

Jaskier shook his head. 

"I've got you," Geralt said, holding his arm out, giving an invitation. 

Jaskier remained silent as he shifted closer, resting his head on Geralt's shoulder. His hand clutched Geralt's chemise. It reminded Geralt far too much of before, and he wanted to prod Jaskier into speaking. 

He didn't. 

Jaskier pulled away, his eyes were downcast. "I couldn't speak."

"Hmm." 

"It was devouring me. I couldn't escape. Vines wrapped around my arms. Held me in place."

"I held you. To stop you from hurting yourself."

"Thank you." He stood up and fidgeted. "I should have said it before now. Thank you for everything."

"I should have found a better way."

Jaskier fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot and running his hand over his hair. "I need to go to the privy and wash up. We should get _some_ sleep tonight."

Geralt let him make his escape and tried to go to sleep. His attempts to help and keep Jaskier safe had made the hallucinations more horrific. He didn't deserve the offered thanks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [ Tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/miahclone/)for Witcher fic-recs, snippets, occasional prompt fills, and just because I love talking about these awesome characters.
> 
> If you enjoyed my writing and would like to reblog this story, you can [ do so here!](https://miahclone.tumblr.com/post/634022829066747904/honeyed-words-vile-hearts-chapter-18/)


	19. Real Futures

###  **Chapter Nineteen: Real Futures**

The rest of the night passed without incident. Jaskier was quiet the next morning and followed Lena to the garden as soon as they'd finished eating. 

Lena's sons pulled Geralt aside before they headed to the field. "You kill monsters, right? For money?" The older one asked. 

"I do."

"There's a contract posted on the notice board in Pinkos. Something has been taking cows for months. And a few weeks ago, it started taking travelers and farmers. The Lord is offering a huge reward for its head." The younger said. 

"That sounds promising, thank you."

Geralt found chores to keep himself busy, but he kept an eye on the garden. He wanted to purchase some of the rarer herbs Lena grew. Jaskier split off from her when they left the garden and headed straight across the field toward the campsite where he'd drank the Hieronymus Dreams. 

Geralt put away his tools and followed. Jaskier knelt near the small pool in the stream. "You'd have never agreed to let me take the potion," he said when Geralt joined him, kneeling as if he were meditating.

Geralt didn't speak. Jaskier needed his ear, needed to assert his voice in a place it had been denied so harshly.

"I knew you were coming. That you'd find me. But after I drank the first cup...all the justifications I had for using it were lost on me."

He stared at the water, his breathing ragged, and his arms wrapped around himself. "I didn't care if I died drinking it. After the first cup, I _wanted_ to die. I didn't even care anymore what that would do to you."

He was quiet even longer this time, and when he spoke his voice was choked. "I did die here." He turned to face Geralt. "Something died inside me. _Jaskier_ died. I'm not sure he can be revived."

"I feared for you. When I realized what you'd done, how much you'd drank. The whole night I moved you in and out of the pool to control your temperature. Listened to you living through horrors. Feared that your mind wouldn't—that'd you'd be a simpleton if you lived."

"I remember you holding me in the dark. It kept them away for a while."

"No one could live through that and be unchanged. You'll find your new footing."

Jaskier's voice was barely audible as he said, "But what if I'm no longer the person you tried so hard to save?"

"Then I meet the person you are now." He twisted to face Jaskier. "You're worth to me isn't measured by you never changing."

"I liked myself before."

"What has changed so much?"

"I'm afraid, Geralt. All the time. Playing to the crowd was like drinking the finest wine. Life—like life and energy. And now Lena asking me to play for her family turned my insides to ice."

"The wounds are fresh."

Jaskier laughed, a joyless sound of derision. "The bruises are gone, and the headaches aren't as frequent."

"Not those wounds, and not the ones you inflicted on yourself here. It doesn't have to be visible on your body to be real, but even these heal in time." 

"Always?" 

And Geralt was reminded once more how young Jaskier was. Even at the same age, Geralt had never been that young. Witcher training ripped that innocence out of him as a child. He'd liked seeing it in Jaskier. "They may scar, like any wound."

Jaskier nodded. "We should get back. Lena will worry."

"Alright."

As they walked across the field, Jaskier talked. "This weather reminds me of the time a bunch of us at the Academy… I…" He drew in a long breath. "I'd rather be alone for a time. Will you be alright alone?"

Geralt huffed at him. "I'll be fine. You?"

"Not to worry, I'm done with making stupid, dangerous decisions." At Geralt's look of disbelief, he added, "On this farm, at least."

"You don't need my permission to move."

"I know. Thank you." He jogged toward the farmstead and Geralt let him gain distance.

Geralt helped Lena all afternoon. Her collection of herbs was extensive, and he made deals for several that were difficult to find otherwise. Jaskier didn't reappear, but Geralt chose to trust him. In the evening, Marek and the rest of the family arrived and Geralt took the horses to the barn.

He removed their tack and began wiping the first down, ignoring the quiet, steady heartbeat in the hayloft. He'd finished the first horse before rustling alerted him to Jaskier coming down the ladder. Geralt ignored him. He smelled faintly of fear, but took a brush and joined Geralt in brushing the horse. 

"I’ll play for Lena and the others tonight."

"If that's what you wish."

"Of course. I'm a bard. How can I refuse a performance? It's what I do." Jaskier smiled.

Too wide. Too many teeth. It reminded Geralt of the last time they were in the barn, and the awful days afterward. "What are you doing, Jaskier?"

"Living my life."

"When we left here before, you smiled like that. Unnatural. Unnerving. What is it about this barn that makes you do that?"

Jaskier's smile faltered, and he gulped. "I… I came out here to talk to Roach. Before, that is. I couldn't say goodbye to you, couldn't stand the thought of saying anything else. Ever." He left the stall and sat on a crate. "I came out here that day to decide how I wanted to die. In peaceful slumber after a long, long life, thank you very much." He looked up at Geralt and grinned. "That's what I decided, you know."

"When I found you here. You were afraid."

"Yes. Not of you. I'd realized something. I couldn't control the curse. Nothing I could do about it. Nothing you could do about it. My life—everything I'd ever hoped and dreamed and worked for—it was gone. But I remained, and I didn't want to die, so I chose to live." He stood up and slapped Geralt on the back. "Starting a new life is reason enough to be scared, I think."

"That doesn't explain the smiling."

"Hmm. Yes, well, how else could I communicate to you that I was going to be fine? Before you ask, no, I was _not_ fine then. The loss hurt, but you thought I was afraid of you, because of…" He rubbed his arms where the bruising had been the worst. "I refused to mope in front of you. I wanted you to accept my decision." He shrugged. "And it started to feel real after a while."

"So you'll play tonight hoping it will feel real."

He chuckled. "It won't. Not tonight. But like you said in the woods. Wounds heal. It'll be real someday."

"They have news of a lucrative contract in Pinkos."

"An excellent town for a traveling bard! When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow."

As Geralt watched Jaskier play that night, it wasn't like seeing the old Jaskier. He had found Jaskier in garbage. He'd watched him claw back to health after being starved, watched him risk his life suffering terror and nightmares in the process. Jaskier'd had friends turn on him, seen the world turned unkind at nearly every corner. He'd had nightmares and attacks leave scars on him—and he was changed—but he was still _his_ Jaskier, his _friend_ , and Geralt would accept the changes that came to them on their path openly. 

No matter if life tossed them honey or vinegar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [ Tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/miahclone/)for Witcher fic-recs, snippets, occasional prompt fills, and just because I love talking about these awesome characters.
> 
> If you enjoyed my writing and would like to reblog this story, you can [ do so here!](https://miahclone.tumblr.com/post/634281543712620544/honeyed-words-vile-hearts-chapter-19/)


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